John Brewster: Two poems

The first wings I made for Icarus

I still have them. Take them out
to air, run these knotted fingers
through the curls of wood and twine.
Let the little arms unfold, once

a year, at sunrise. All children
can fly: a principle of invention,
that belief precedes design.
The fourth step was the leap,

there, by the sea daffodils.
How many times I caught him,
like a dolphin clutching fish,
with a schooled precision.

Yesterday a blue feather
fell upon his shrine. The birds
are in league with the wind,
with my fluttering breath.

Dappled Wall, Dinas Mawddwy

The wall meets my hand
with a firm familiarity,
its hold a dialogue
that has resumed.

On the surface I have
paused for breath,
luggage done, car to lock,
but the wall breaks in.

May air and many miles
of exhaustion soften
my leaning into this
shadowed conversation.

I catch the odd man-made
hole, now lined in rust:
sockets that a Merlin
might stab an eye through.

Engravings in moss
of impatient life,
gouge to grief-stricken trickle,
unfold like a human palm.

Blemishes of sunlight
cross horizons created
by my fingers, stirring
a young reclusive sea.

Bluebells wave to ferns
around the corner; lavender
exudes a silent healing.
Self-inflicted boundaries

waver, their function groundless
in this flow of stone wisdom.
The sing-song of stress and strain

dissipates; the freedom of just
being is the unvoiced thesis.

The wall and I separate, rebuilt.

Copyright © John Brewster 2017

John Brewster writes poetry and fiction in English and Scots. He finds a centre balancing between both ends of this linguistic seesaw. His work has appeared in various anthologies and won literary prizes. His most recent poetry collection, Automatic Writing, was published by Cultured Llama.


About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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