CLING
The nimble promise of half-light
finds me, while nested sleep claims you
to solitude. I know your curves.
Allegro weaves my waking cloth,
a scimitar of nestlessness,
I have no rest. You clothe in leaves.
The morning forest stretches songs,
not tremulous, no tentative
whisper. They scythe a curve of moon.
A wakeful door, a hem of sun,
the hum of bees, wakefulness splashes
so loud you turn around to me...
Like the curve of the moon,
Like the curve of the hills,
Like leaves you cling to curves,
I stretch to you.
BEACH OBSERVATION
His hands behind his head,
no weight, what with the sky
shuttered and sea at play
along the sleepy bay.
Eyes closed, and yet he knows
this weight, the busy spade
and bucket pouring time
over his feet. He trusts
her even when the worry
of sand comes on his heart.
A father gives his time
no weight. His daughter digs.
Phil Wood was born in Wales. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys painting and learning German. His writing can be found in various places, most recently in: Byways (Arachne Press Anthology), The Lake, Fevers of the Mind (a collaboration with photographer John Winder), and the Borderless Journal.
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