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
I’ll crackle like a vinyl as it
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.
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.
Featured image courtesy of Joe Joyce, with permission.