Winter Street
the black mountains rise up
cities cloud-urban citadels
not the crow clang-tapping
a tin post not the screel and
soar of the gull can prevent
it tails of berries strew the ground
littered already with wasp-hasps
wet leaves rain washed the trees
out my body in its wet and dry
calls yours it does not yearn for
you I can snap your image from
my mind at the crossing where
life is my soul doing just as theirs
in their everyday I watch them
carry their validities like groceries
the realities of their lives across
streams of traffic observing the
marvel of their feet carrying weight
my feet-of-clay are in their wintering
standing her observing reds deep
dark greens I wish you away and
move into them into their flow
bit by bit the mountains have
dissolved behind houses as magic
cities surely do crows worry the
long wet grass and the gull
has soared to the sea red berries
impinge when I crack their blood
-bags into the ground their juices
red underfoot I pick the threads
snip them at their roots tidying this
box of sharp things scissors and
needles neat and sweet the box
smells of vanilla freesia and some
other thing I put the scissors away
it smells of cedar
Winter Street © Chris Murray
Read Issue 20 of One Here. The artwork is “Rip” by Steven DaLuz
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Chris Murray lives in Dublin. She founded and curates Poethead dedicated to platforming work by women poets, their translators and editors. She is an active member of Fired! Irish Women Poets and the Canon which seeks to celebrate and draw awareness to the rich cultural heritage of Irish women poets through readings. Her latest book is ‘bind’ (Turas Press, 2018) |
Chris Murray 