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”.