Saturday, 5 August 2017


                                             The back of my hand is no longer so reliable.
                                             Its creases don’t cohere with the mountains.
                                             Up there, the rocks are bleached, the scrub
                                             hurtles down a slope as if it’s thirsty
                                             for the sea. Decisions might have to be made.

                                             In the wood that shades the promontory,
                                             you can almost be lost before you recognise
                                             an arrangement of branches, a blister on a trunk
                                             that points you outwards, to the islands,
                                             to slotted headlands stretching out
                                             beyond where we are and into the open distance.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

No comments:

Post a Comment