Issue 13


Autumn 2014

 

Bleed


‘Sometimes childlessness, stretching out into the ether
like a plane.’  Sinead Morrissey, ‘Contrail’


Perhaps you are travelling late
in the car and the darkness rises
up before you like the walls
of a well you are circling
and slipping, circling
and slipping, like riding
the wall of death
in a dream of driving.

Sometimes it gets hard to tell
travelling from stalling,
stalling from sleeping,
as you start, falling
awake – to the sound
of an owl as she ghosts
between trees, and the birds
on the marshes calling.

This late travelling,
the false-falling, the shapes
on the marshes hovering,
are all that you need to believe
this must be the last time,
or the last time you cry,
and something, everything,
nothing makes you try.

________________

Heidi Williamson

 

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