Winter’s scaffold dismantled,
breeks folded and placed by the door. Orange belts of magma swirled by turbines. The cool-blue and black of ancient sculptors.   Parks are full of people strengthening their reserves, sand-bagging the heart, sharing the acute pangs or disposing of them in the river, weighted with rock.   Then, the quiet sunrise, cobwebs bucket dew, the moon sleepwalks in a faded pocket. Lamp posts cough and splutter across pavements. Flowers elbow one another in the long-waterless jar,   colour gone from lips, stems of dust held
together by nothing more and no less. Petals kicked up, whirled among seasons as the tides ricochet, they cannot say no.

David Linklater is a poet from Balintore, Easter Ross. His work has appeared in Gutter, Glasgow Review of Books, Ink, Sweat & Tears, DMQ Review and SPAM, amongst others. His pamphlet Black Box was published in 2018 with Speculative Books. He lives and writes in Glasgow. Twitter: @DavidRossLinkla


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