Poetry

The Morning’s Longer

The morning’s longer, blue as knifeblades

She’s a morning kind to murderers

Somewhere bodied moorland lights

Fossilled with old gods and

The trees are blushed or less 

Her remembering earth is soft and fleshy

The grassy ears listen for what might be

It’s a night to hold old feuds and in the raw of the mists tread quiet

A mist to muffle

Clouds bow into human worlds

Somewhere a crow is pitching

And the dried river bed grows cold with moisture

Thom Flint

© 2014