The Archive

Saturday, 18 October 2014


I don’t know if 
anything will become 
of your dirt-scored hands or
your wax ash laugh,
even when it’s softened by the night air.

I don’t know if anything 
will become of your crooked
middle-of-the-morning smile,
your smoke wisp hair curling at the 
nape of your neck like the last breath 
before the edge of the waterfall,
or your crackling driftwood eyes. 

And while I’m partial to the silhouette
you make stood against the light 
I don’t know if anything will become 
of you.

Because I don’t know if my bones 
have too much cold in them
not to cover the 
soil in your voice with frost.

Isla Jeffery

No comments:

Post a Comment