Issue Five

Autumn 2012



for FG

The moon's in hiding,
pared to the rim of a fine
porcelain bowl,

the far edge
cloaked by a swirling
skim of steam.

The girl, pale
as dregs of day, her face
round as the clock

on the wall that inches
time, grasps the deep
flat-based spoon

in the hand that obeys
thought, scoops, leans in, sips
the comfort of mushrooms.

Her throat, in training,
swallows, warmth trickles
through her bones.

She is enfolded
in the quiet of stars,
has returned again

from the onslaught
that seeks to oust the dark
clutch of overgrowth

lodged within her head
that undoes her walking, puts
her days on hold.



Helen Overell



eagle fractal