Whether it’s a bouldering sheep
or a raw snow-bone,
at this distance all is tantalising
and inconclusive. Either way,
there’s a silver flaw in your best eye,
a speck of ore, a day-star.
Your other is flecked with floaters,
brimful with half-formed tears
gelled from the wind.
Either way, whatever it is
slides off the precipice
as soon as you shift your gaze.
This guttural rain falls at exactly
45 degrees; your gust-scuppered hood
swells in vacant optimism.
A wet head. A cold head
adrift somewhere between
Magnetic North and True North,
wobbling at the centre
of a tiny antique compass.
Image: “Grindelwald First” by Chris Wee, licensed under CC 2.0.
David Hawkins is a writer, book editor and naturalist from Bristol, England. Recent work appears in Arc Poetry, Blackbox Manifold, Datableed, The Goose, Interpreter's House, Magma, Poetry Wales and White Review among others. He was awarded second prize in the 2015 UK National Poetry Competition.
Latest posts by David Hawkins (see all)
- Why Not Climb? - May 25, 2021