#amwriting #poem #poetry For Mighty Dread

For Mighty Dread

Sometimes - when the sharp focus of sensation
fails to ignite the brain to spout. I will
take myself off - into the quieting evening -
to the river, or the park, or just to traipse
the streets and gaze into the darkened windows
of places that are closed. If I'm lucky -
I will catch first sight of the bitten slice of moon
as it reappears. It lacks, somewhat, the grandeur
of catching your parents being human,
or the furtive agility of a boy, all eyes,
hopping over a ginnel-wall to retrieve a ball.
But there it sits, low upon the horizon
framed between the hulk of trees
and borne by the puffs of the last illumined cloud-banks. 

Once, at football, as a child tired from infants school -
I sat on the terrace step. Through the slatted fence,
as whisping mist rose from the mud-bound pitch
beneath spotlights, I followed the game with disinterest.
Until tapped with ash, and looking up,
I became scarred with the glory of a woman sliced,
front to back by the seam of her tights.
And I was sore afraid.