Poetry

The looking glasses

Books are mirrors, some say

and I know that some of my

friends, when they look in them,

always see their reflection

staring back, as they’ve seen

since they were kids. Then

there are some, like me

who only see their reflection

when it’s blown up to such a size

that every pore, every pimple

and every uncertain smile

is visible, the words

behind the mirror irrelevant.

I even know people who

have never seen their reflections

on the mirror pages.

They keep thinking their reflections

don’t matter, maybe they’re broken.

But I know better. It’s

the mirrors that are broken,

and one day soon, they will

all be replaced with new ones,

so everyone can see themselves

in those precious tomes.

 

Poetry, Uncategorized

Wild hunt

The riders churn up the sodden grass. Horses snorting, ragged breaths. The eclipse baths them in amber fire, not unlike that catching in their minds from the fear. Close, even-handed, promising a kiss. The trial failed. People didn’t believe in the grand scales of justice. The colour palette of skin, limb, mind and faith squashed ever tighter by the notches of authority. The moon breaks free of the shadow. The sun is always watching.