Primrose Hill, at Dawn
The city appears out of the fold,
like a great ghost leering over the horizon
seeking imperfection in the cut of the sky.
Purloined cloud vestments caress the tips
of the grazing dawn, strange marriage vows
encased in the blushing cheek of the sun.
A paradox of vision that scares the viewer,
the subconscious sighs,
a systemic fear of beauty, it'll swallow you in heartache.
A Bridge Over Moving Cars
a freedom ethereal,
a space suspended
hitched on the back of
electric piano notes
burnt from shadows that
linger under a
fortress of zephyr blankets,
manuscript of fog.
Harmony in the roar, a
montage of columns.
I am smoke beyond
the clouds, I am the Lord's breath
above moving cars.
Grant Tarbard has worked as a computer games journalist, a contributor
to football fanzines, an editor, a reviewer and an interviewer. He is now the
editor of The Screech Owl.
Post a Comment