Elins julekalender 2011: luke 2

Advent

After the wideawake galaxies
each dawn is glass.
Leavings of the night’s kill lie,
twig-bones, ice-feathers,
the ghost of starlight.

Ewes breathe silver.
The rose won’t come –
stopped in her tracks.
Everything’s particular:
bramble’s freehand,

a leaf caught out,
the lawn’s journal.
Deep down even the water-table
stiffens its linen,
and horizons pleat in a bucket.

The stars burn out
to starved birds
watching my window,
and one leaf puts up a hand
against infinitive light.

Fra Collected poems skrevet av Gillian Clarke.

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