Looking here
out on the snow
where every man-
made box
has stopped its flow,
while icy rivers
shiver trees
by stagnant ponds,
I freeze
to see how such
re-structured patterns
fuse in fronds
that snap
at that old frosted doubt
that tries to frame
a blurring name
or question
which will crack my lips
and chap my flaking skin.
I ask at last
if any word
or world-locked vessel
fits quite the same
outside as in.
Powercut Night
Those childhood blackouts
pulled us close;
small hands held, warmed
to the rapture of candles
‘til the sun turned up
and the chimney huffed
a thin, mean sneeze of smoke.
Still some nights now
that extinguished glow
melts the lines in our faces –
grown brittle, opaque –
to a clear, molten flow
which morning will harden,
tear-shaped by the cold.
Georgia Brooker is a Scottish Librarian and will be one of the great Poets of this generation.
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