Poetry

Ripples

A ripple in a glass of water

can never leave the glass.

Yet if the glass ever cracks,

the water can push against it,

working away to force an opening.

Even if the gap it makes is only

wide enough for a trickle to escape,

sometimes that trickle is all that’s needed.

Seeping across the table,

weaving its way through discarded cutlery,

crusted salt and pepper pots

and past dusty, fine china plates

to the edge, where droplets form

ready to drip into the dry soil

filling the plant pot below.

The fresh seeds lying in wait

beneath the surface

will finally get

their spark of life.

 

Poetry

The Swan (draft)

Feathers leafed across

the silver neck,

elongated by the sun’s

dawn fingers. Reflections

change on the water’s

surface; webbed feet

cracked into separate

toes.

Every night as moonface

greets the pale ripples,

a crown of moss

adorns the head,

mocking its gilded

cousin for the barrier

keeping them

apart.

Coarse voice soon

turns to music,

eased by lips instead

of beak. But the instance

is fleeting, a rolling

waiver shimmering with

the false promise of

escape.