Changeling

Changeling


time creates; time destroys
witness the growth of men
from boys

a belligerent sun 
warps 
continents of clouds

a plane, a boat
and a
hike

will get him
there

shaking his hair
along liminal 
coastlines

harvesting mannerisms, 
lives, 
throwaway lines

in a fisherman's hut
a changeling
writes







©AndrewJamesMurray
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October #2, first draft

October #2

we share the same
button up 
black trench coat

she goes out
occasionally,
leaving me writing

I go out, leaving her 
working on her clay jars,
jars she'll bury 
in the four quarters
of our grounds


is that the Wild Hunt,
sweeping over weeping treetops?
graveyard whistling
until that 
pristine frontier
of a winter's day

curled and cracked 
parchment balm 
. . .

Crows

Crows


A disheartening of crows
gathered in winter fields.

Naked trees 
from disused rail road tracks,

dark stains
on white linen.

In trust we are led
through this stark terrain,

senses soaked
in sparse liquor,

a hungry air tasting our flesh,

a murmuring 
of hardened, thirsting 
soil.

They rise, wheeling,
across the sky,

black flecks of mortality
in widening whites of eyes.






©AndrewJamesMurray