Poetry | Ink Sweat and Tears

Col Fleetwood

Muckle Flugga

Unmoored on an ocean of heather
no wind to pluck the strings
of the aeolian harp

Policed by the unsettling glare
of nesting great skuas
we tread the narrow path

The boardwalk rises and falls
under a sky empty
and scoured of song

To the lighthouse
in search of the solan goose
we press on

Until all land ends
pearl-studded cliffs rear up
to arrest us

And the pitch of the sea
snares the unquiet silence
of our voices

Col Fleetwood lives and writes in the wild and beautiful borderlands between Scotland and England.

speaks whale, speaks star
breathes in — tight as a tomb
breathes out — splintered crackle

Rack and stretch her, loosen flesh
from bone. A jointed bird will not squawk.

A woman somewhere is typing on the internet
my heart wakes me up like clockwork.

At breakfast my man sticks a purple
magnolia bud in my soft boiled egg.
The flower opens, distilling to lilac.

Sometimes I’m surprised there’s light
in dark places, those corridors, those alleys
where you wouldn’t stray if you didn’t need

Trends of lead, silver, copper, and zinc
vein the middle of Missouri . . .

. . . something, cold
wet and bitter, saline
sided by yellow sand . . .

and I said,
“I understand,”
and I did, ishly . . .

Thirsty Shadow

the kind of being
that won’t post
an image