Another handful of small stones

I’ve been saving them up so I can fling them at your bedroom window like gravel from the hands of a lovesick fool…


Clear veins have crept through the gutters,

Hard frost has scrubbed at the brickwork,

At last we wake up to the gift of edges.


Rapidly snapping their wingtips back into place over their rumps

Like concert pianists flipping their tailcoats over the stool.

Herring gulls. Deadpan.


On the floor of the Battery museum –

A quiet cluster of spent shells,

Dinted and corroded, crude as coilpots.

And one white feather.


On the train I am persuaded to put down my pen

By the clouds, those tatters of pale, blinding radiance.


The galvanised watering can has rolled against the back fence, skittled by the night-long wind, but resting now. In the 7am gloom, it is the only gleam. A shoulder of silver light, pale and passive as a quarter moon.

One thought on “Another handful of small stones

  1. Reblogged this on McKay Poetry News and commented:
    Longtime poet comrade Luckins K, demonstrating that there is satori to be found even on Teeside. Kirsten will be coming to London on April 6 with her brilliant THE MOON CANNOT BE STOLEN to take part in the UTTER! EDINBURGH MINIFEST. You should all come (elsewhere on this blog for details).

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