SENTINEL POETRY #26 Online Magazine Monthly, January 2005 |
ALAN HILL Seelengwanderung The water meadow Trackless as the sky Curled in to a ball Beneath the river
edge’s swollen feet. Its breath to push The current’s slow
contractions through In to my blood Across the history of my
rippled pulse. A murmur of translucence through my blood
and bone To wash this smooth skinned
tabernacle out Hinge the scree of solitary
thought Fuse the instant to the next. Connect the pattern of this
place Where I am neither young nor
old My sickness or my state of
health A matter of no
consequence. Alan Hill writes from
Brixton, London. Publications include “The Wolf”. |