In The Wake of Small Craft
I can still hear cicadas
in the churchyard
from where I sit
on the stone wall.
A black river
embedded in my skin
and lonely the ferryman.
Dawn Was Dragging Her Wings Among The Tears
Old ways mixed into new metaphor,
old habits hiding ancient truth.
Beneath the blackened railway bridge
the watch trick broke my mind.
A dark coat letting in a breeze,
two broken fingers,
his hand a dirty bandage.
Glass eyes, raw tracks
and time breaking down squealing.
A dog barking, rabies ravaging a futile mind
a sigil burned in it’s forehead.
A crippled horse pulls a rickety wagon
as prostitutes flash their cunts
in lucid dreams.
Footsteps in the dark,
the pavement an empty grave.
Two broken fingers
and the dawn waking.
Sudden eruptions of scar tissue on fingertips,
an unfeeling membrane ending touch.
In the mouth the tongue twists
vainly to taste itself.
Gloss washed over eyelids,
the coloured plastic crumpled in my pocket
and an old man pointing a bone at my back.
And The View Looks Like The Country
A clumsy child playing jacks
spills colours from between
It Is Wise
it is wisest to remove insolence,
and her entrails hang steaming on a fence.
the snow stained red by the setting sun.
© A. G Pettet
from the forthcoming collection Improvised Dirges (2015)