Poetry

In the museum.

Haze. Frost across the future

in an eggcup full of water

in a statue’s cupped hands

in a child’s shoe.

Tinted.

Refracting red.

Wheat fields rise:

golden, new.

A heady scent bottled and archived –

a summer in the West.

Before the fall.

Poetry

The Neat Gurney

A glimmer catches your eye,

you look closer, taking in

the brightness and separating it

from the image beyond.

There you see her eyes sparkling

blue, full of hope

that tugs at your being.

You dare to believe her optimism

is not misguided,

but then the mirror darkens,

clouded by a storm of muttering.

The doctor says this is normal.

Still, deep down,

you can’t help but fear

the worst.