PoetryMagazine.com

Nellie Hill
Page 3

Firethorn 

The clouds are now brilliant white
after the slow, dark, rain-filled morning
that crawled overhead through the skies.
 
Pyracantha berries glow deep red
in the bright afternoon from among the thorns,
red ripe now after the cold weeks before.
 
Birds flock to the shrubs, eating, chattering,
fighting, chirping, wings whirring.
Maddened on yeasts and sugars, drunk,
 
they can’t stop their thrusts of blather and words
that ferment into rejoinder, twisting back and forth
from warble to talk and almost song.

 

 

An Old Story 

it’s one of those
awful Sunday nights
gray
not rain
but thick wet air
trees blowing around
as more heaviness
moves in from the Pacific
saturating houses
each plodding creature
each bird flounders
and already
I’m reaching for the bite
of single malt scotch
 
I’ve had more than two glasses
I thought it would help
lift my spirits
a friendly nip on the heels
from my favorite dog
my long-dead dog
my recently-dead mother
and now again
the fog descends
in that awful way blocking from view
even the house across the street
 
my sight is so clouded
I don’t really see the fog
 
I feel it though
the clammy cottony air
grasping my arms
my shoulders my neck
I can’t breathe
 
that’s how it goes
an old story
someone can’t breathe
 
and then the breath is gone