THE CROWS AT DUSK
From the porch,
I could see a string of crows
on a high branch.
Then, as night came in,
with my half-blind eyes,
it seemed as if the very trees
were crows,
deep black
with wings fluttering
in the chilly west wind.
And the hills were crows,
And the road,
The fence,
The yard.
Yet the caw came
only from where
I had first seen those
silken ebony birds.
Even in darkness,
the tree crows
put on hold
the crows of my imagination.
SNAKE ENCOUNTER
The snake lifts its head slightly.
Its bead eyes fasten on me.
So where is that ancient fear of man
instinctive to every serpent?
Why doesn’t it slither away?
But it would rather hiss softly as it takes my measure.
Maybe it senses something vulnerable in me,
a phobia it can play like a well-tuned harp.
I say something dumb and human, like "Shoo."
But it doesn’t retreat. It doesn’t even blink.
I am not prey but I am an interloper.
My breath is an uneasy truce between two beings.
We spend this unplanned armistice trying to read each other.
A DYING BLACKSMITH
I'm fading - not like sunset, no -
like the cooling of iron
left too long on a sideboard.
Sleep is near death,
my bed’s a coffin
with a forge for a crematorium.
Dreams speak the tools of my trade
but twist them in ways
that make my brows knot.
I wear that rutted road,
not proud, just unsure
how to smooth it out.
And the flame is not my friend.
My handle burns.
My hammer’s head
is about to shatter.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, Trampoline and Flights. His latest books — Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires — are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Willow Review.
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