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ADELAIDE Independent Bimonthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Bimensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 



 

 

 

 

 

WATCHING THE SUN GO BY
By Gareth Culshaw

 

 

 

 

WATCHING THE SUN GO BY

Her days were by
the window. An ornament
painted by his hands.

She would watch the sun
move along the terraced
house. Turning the time

from west to east.
A sack of bones for
years, already in her grave.

He’s made her like this.
with his all knowing tongue
written her history made her

watch the sun go by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

WAY HOME

Rain was urgent
pummelled the tarmac.
Something had happened
up ahead.

Brake lights blew,
distant drags of cigarettes.
We all lined up into a
spine of cars.

Second hand slowness
of each turn of wheel
that wheelbarrow each car
door on our way home

through a band of rain
that pecked our windscreen.

 

 

 

 

 

WHERE THE WIND BEGINS

When the wind waits,
trees grow the wood,
stream shows no lulling.

The foehn is born here.
Hatched by something unknown,
lies underneath the leaf-mould,

gathers in the darkness.
Hangs around the brambles,
rests in the throats of birds.

When the wind stirs it hurls
a backlog of collared time,
garnered light, song and rain.

Where the wind begins
it has no end, unravels until it
downs, to set another trap.

 

 

 

 

 

WINTER HIDES BEHIND AUTUMNS BACK

 

Winter hides behind Autumn's back
sucking out the light of the leaves.
Then stands watching them fall.

Hedgehogs disappear, pulled down
nettle alleyways. Birds are shooed away
but are told its migration.

Trees moan and groan, letting branches
move out of their homes. Storms brush
away the woodland floors.

Rain bullets the earth. Clouds block out
the sun. Winter hides behind Autumns back
changing the life of what we've known

 

 

 

 

 

WOOD OF LIFE

They were two trees
growing through the years.
Their branches never touched

reaching out to different veins.
Both searched the sky
saw the sun from opposite angles.

I watched them grow together
with their roots in separate lands.
Two seeds born, sprouted.

One caught early, felled
eighteen months later. While the
other grew from the shadows

but left alone with half turned
faces. Under a canopy of darkness.

 

 

 

 

About the Author:

Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. His poems have been published in various publications across the UK and USA.


 




 




 

 

 

     
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