The Sun is not Living
It does not keen.
It is a vast, unencompassable cauldron,
And gives us light
which we have grown eyes to see by,
warmth against the void’s chill tongue.
It is shining today
in a sharply-angled, wintry sort of way,
stabbing through the angle of the Earth’s tilt
as the plants discard bits of themselves
sinking back into the dark interior of the soil
to dream until the warmth returns
and calls them back to life.
The wind is moving over us,
I hear its uneven breath in the trees.
- Jim Conwell 2019
Jim Conwell was born, and has lived most of this life, in various parts of London. He has had poems published in various magazines including The Lampeter Review, The Seventh Quarry, The SHOp, Turbulence, Elbow Room and Ofi Press, He has had two poems shortlisted in the Bridport Poetry Prize.
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