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Thinking of Tesla on the District Line<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Tesla, on the District line there\u2019s a glimpse<\/p>\n of lights, a whole field of lights in darkness.<\/p>\n I think of you in Colorado Springs,<\/p>\n planting bright bulbs to transfigure the slopes.<\/p>\n Sparks leapt and snapped from your brain\u2019s fiery flint.<\/p>\n And later, in New York, the white pigeon<\/p>\n came to you, a lightning fall to your hands.<\/p>\n Tesla, you couldn\u2019t shake hands with people<\/p>\n but you greeted radiance. I think of you<\/p>\n in darkness, where the lights have no end.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Clarissa Aykroyd<\/strong> grew up in Victoria, Canada, and now lives in London, England. Her work has appeared in The Missing Slate, Shot Glass Journal, And Other Poems <\/em>and Poetry Atlas<\/em>, as well as anthologies, and she is a Pushcart Prize nominee. She is the author of a blog on poetry, The Stone and the Star <\/em>(www.thestoneandthestar.blogspot.co.uk<\/a>). Find her on Twitter: @stoneandthestar<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Quince tree<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Pushing rubbish into its bin, a sliver of a broken bottle dug into my fingernail.<\/p>\n The backyard flickers with city blue. The painter’s stroke distances itself from the plumb.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The dream of light and truth slips away, quinces swell on the tree arched with winter.<\/p>\n The stiff angle of his fingers, measures up eye to block. I forget, my blood loss congeals.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Sunlight momentarily cuts through, the leaf gnarled quince falls, harmony transfixed.<\/p>\n Peering over half-moons, sleeping, tight lipped, he lets fall the prism.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Patrick Williamson<\/strong> lives near Paris. Poetry: Gifted<\/em> (Corrupt Press), Beneficato<\/em> and Nel Santuario<\/em> (both English-Italian; www.samueleeditore.it). Editor of The Parley Tree, Poets from French-speaking Africa and the Arab World<\/em>(www.arcpublications.co.uk).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Long way home\u00a0 \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Albert trundles the trolley along the gritted path.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He needs to return to the supermarket<\/p>\n millions of silent miles away.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Scorched light shines on his hunched<\/p>\n and purposeful back. Nobody else<\/p>\n is here to see his mean clarity. He blasphemes<\/p>\n under his breath<\/p>\n when one of the wheels catches<\/p>\n judders<\/p>\n moves on.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n His face is red: part from exertion<\/p>\n and part reflected light from the planet\u2019s surface<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He will never reach Asda.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n