Today’s choice

Previous poems

Ivan McGuinness

 

 

 

Bourn Identity

 

Begins
in a bubble
strained by chalk.
Where the brim-full hill cries,
weeping tracks merge
into an idea of brook:
Letcombe,
until merging with Ock.
Earth accommodates to accumulate,
hollows between course, force and resistance.
Pool falls over rock
riffles
into deeper ways,
cress-beds, crayfish, sticklebacks and bullheads.
Wet footed playground,
skirts tucked up
socks rolled on the bank,
ripple and eddy round skinny white legs,
soft silt cushions tender toes,
nets, jam-jars,
magnified beauties of the deep.

In town, domesticated by brick and stone, after grills and races,
a turning wheel catches life out of the stream, grinds free flow
into value.oMill-tailoooowateroooorelaxesooooafteroooowork.

 

 

Ivan McGuinness lives in Oxford, his poetry has appeared in several magazines including Seaside GothicThe Alchemy Spoon and Dream Catcher.

Steph Ellen Feeney

My mother is here, and might not have been,
so I hold things tighter:
the small-getting-smaller of her
running with my daughter down the beach . . .

Jo Eades

It’s Wednesday and / again / I’m laying pages of newspaper on the kitchen table / tipping up the food waste bin /