A poem by JENNA HAM.

 

On the brink of another month,

I’m a string of lunar lights,

and bulbs that smash.

 

There’s power in these deserted streets in the morning of honey hour,

alone with my thoughts:

marigold, honeydew, white-gold, barely gold –

the gold of sleepwalkers and the

apocalypse.

 

Image courtesy of Jenna Ham.

 

I’ll crackle like a vinyl as it

comes alive,

and wash my face in cyan clouds with a bed-head step.

My past selves echo out of these faceless sunny days,

and rise after dark.

 

It’s exhilarating.

 

When I read the signs I realise

that these have been the most important days of my life.

Ic hine cūðe: I knew him.

Under this flat, snow-globe summer

I am free to roam.

 

Image courtesy of Jenna Ham.

Featured image courtesy of Joe Joyce, with permission.