Friday, August 31, 2012


I dreamed the hour in scattered lungs,
eyes ever sunk in the wrong dust
and the wrong sky longing to hang light.
Morning, a bird
clamped to the ridge of the sun;
the rush of its ash the world’s crime.
What wilts is blood and the idle flower,
grass spinning an emerald fire. Bright
black the spasm song dressed as love,
strange and flustered as a hanged moth.

About Gillian Prew:
Gillian Prew lives in Scotland and is the author of two recent chapbooks, DISCONNECTIONS (erbacce-press) and In the Broken Things (Virgogray Press). A previous self-published book, the idea of wings, is also available via Amazon. Her poems have been published widely online and in print, including Danse Macabre du Jour, Up the Staircase Quarterly, The Glasgow Review, Red Fez and Fragile Arts Quarterly. She has twice been short-listed for the erbacce-prize. She likes cats, crows and Dylan Thomas. Her personal website can be found at and her blog at

No comments:

Post a Comment