Gillian Prew

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the inadequate glass
 
 
What, but a querulous stain,
a numb couvade? Reflection
 
revealing nothing more than a sign,
a movement through atrophy. I
 
(flesh) a stale irrelevance; poor music -
a drone searching for a cadenza.
 
Born into summer - a hot stone,
a breathless paralysis. Looking
 
back at  too many nights; too much
violence. Glass,
 
summary of my condition, failing
to deliver more than intransigent surface.
 
Unravelling through time, an amnesiac child,
a passive certainty to age. This life
 
(my life) lapsing -
running with it to the dust.

 

 

sun trap
 
 
World, damned hieroglyph,
your skin is not mine nor
do your fuchsias bend like bells for me.
 
It is hot today. I meet the sun alone -
more intimate than being born.
 
Too hot for human reason, yet
ants bear colossi round my feet.