Strands of Grey Loosen

A week from September the purple thistles start
to let themselves go. Strands of grey loosen.

Morning light slices more precisely through cooling,
thinning air. The ache in bone moves deeper.

The smooth harbour water looks dense enough to cut
into blocks. Gulls spread their sharp white wings.

All day crows pock the blue skies with night. Their cries
at night are white, as when fingers press into frostbite.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Charlottetown, Consciousness, Crows, Gulls, Harbour, John MacKenzie, Language, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Summer, The Sea, Time, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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