Friday Poem


There you are again at the far end of the empty beach,
scrambling over rocks beneath the abandoned nunnery

painted ice-cream green. Fleet as a greyhound,
tiny as a mote floating in the outer corner of my eye,

matted hair a billowing ghost of rain as the day
folds back into its rookery of clouds.

I’ve caught a glimpse of you before:
a shadow on the wall of empty streets

where silence sounds like noise. Barely noticed,
you stand among stagnant puddles

by the graffiti-etched door in a patina of winter light.
You bear a name you never ask for,

trace the history of longing in your veins,
your lost passions in the March wind.

At night you are both salt and ash.
A low scream in the mirror of the moon.

by Sue Hubbard
Ink Sweat and Tears