Current Issue               Submissions               Round Table

 




 




   

 

THE HARBOUR

Angel, how numb your shoulders are,
how they sag with the burden of feathers
that pull you down to the dark rim
of a darkening earth. And when you lift your eyes
from the oily slap of water, they gleam
briefly, a flint that no light gives you,
not the burning iron ships, nor the harboured
moonlight, nor the flare of a match, they gleam
with the agony of your presence.

      — Alison Croggon