Wednesday by Chris Martin

Silver birch picks at cloud hems
Pulls them down over hibernating nests
The bones of a snowstorm rattle over the end of the room
My mouth is ready
To swallow the impending whiteness

Birches
Birches and dark firs
Distant faces bark-nicked loom
Reaching into the lacefall
Melt

Silver
Birch outside my mother's kitchen window
Hides the wind in its trunk
Leans and flings a net to catch the snow
Music

My fingers touch the glass and
I take on the world's shape like a magician
Freeze-dried, forever

My mother taps me on the shoulder
Her glasses are steamed up

We turn to make Thursday's
Pea soup.


Chris Martin, Pembrokeshire, Wales

Cohort by Chris Martin

In a tidal wave of cobbled suns
Spent flower heads cram forward

To see the concert players rise
On the last surprise of wind

Before the last touch of day
Defensive spines fire flushed

Pierce through the buttery walls
Of yellow meadow light

As fieldmouse mingled stems
Bend in applause



Chris Martin, Pembrokeshire, Wales, UK