SENTINEL POETRY #26 Online Magazine Monthly, January 2005





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”.



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