Gillian Prew lives in Scotland and is the author of two chapbooks,
DISCONNECTIONS (erbacce-press, 2011) and In the Broken Things (Virgogray Press, 2011).
A further book, THROATS FULL OF GRAVES, is newly released from Lapwing Publications.
Her poems have been published widely online and in print, including Danse Macabre du Jour, Up the Staircase Quarterly, The Glasgow Review, The Recusant and Ink Sweat & Tears. She has twice been short-listed for the erbacce-prize. You can find her online at http://gillianprew.com/
by Gillian Prew
Lifted, listen to the stains of the birds
their eyes oil, their flight a flowered rain.
No sun stammers above the cloud. No sun
cleans the tide, wraps the dead. Bloodless,
the stalks of spring wait to be flames.
Their sappy blades are madness. Only sorrow
sees them, alone as a tied dog waiting
for a yellow bone, a heavy ink
to give it a name.
I cannot move. This is my rain perhaps,
my pulse the waves of the firth,
the gulls fishing for graves.
THE ARRIVAL OF MOURNING
This plug of grief, loosened,
a warm funeral. Abandoned
to the knotted waters. The blind tide
heaving and wrecked. From birth
the beckoning of cascading waste.
How the jagged skyline, sinking,
reflects the blood, whittles the air.
The arrival of mourning,
brave and black-suited,
chiming its mirror bell, shutting
the day to a leaning tomb.
Its withered eyes, like cherry stones,
lamenting their lost sweetness. I,
a blushing callous on the sideline,
singing like a shadow. Speechless.