
Won 2nd place in Glen Phillips Poetry Prize, 2015, published in Stylus Lit, Sept 2017, https://styluslit.com/poetry/tenebrae/
Tenebrae
1.
It’s late. Outside our window, shadows are hunting amongst the trees
wiping out their kindnesses, their careful housing of small lives
the silver dirling of their leaves in the dusk.
Night knits together. The trees blur
and blend till all we see is the plain
and purl of their trunks, ribbing the dark.
Finally, there’s nothing but a stark square
of black and ourselves reflected in it, the ghosts
of our hands, drawing together as if in prayer, closing the curtains.
2.
And now the inside noises: TV’s staccato static
wi-fi rustling in the folds of our brain
the microwave’s toneless baritone
the drone of the vacuum’s empty vowels
ready-meals crunkling in manufactured ice.
3.
The freezer door slams. The fridge
gives several loud whidders and is
silent. We don’t see the light
go out but we know it’s out.
4.
It’s then we remember the pathways through the trees
which must still be there, even though it's dark.
We can’t see them but we ken they're there
and we ken that small lives are moving back
and forth across them,
making wee impressions
in the trampled earth
with their totie
padded feet
their totie
clawed feet
the spindled
pinpoints
of their
insect
legs.
We look towards the window. In a while we’ll go across
and rearrange the curtains, part the soft
folds and look out into dark
and when we turn away
we’ll leave them open
behind us
ready for the glister
of morning.
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