Night as rag-soaked petroleum,
the whisper of moon creaks
through the cloud’s machinery.
Something has taken a hold
that leaves you wondering
where it all began –
with milk turning thick-sour
clotted in the bottle, or the soft
gyrations of motorway noise
trapped in lobes of the landscape’s
shell-coils, or with the funeral march
tapping blind on the pipes in the wall.
Childhood rusts, counted on coat hooks
in cupboards-under-stairs, a spark caught
silently as a kiss threatens a dithering island.
Nightfall recast, an angler’s line
falling still into a dark plot
formed invisible –
the soft tremor of breath
sending footprints tumbling
across the lover’s sheets.
Yet the blackbird breaks a chorus
as soft as the egg-blue
spoiled on pavement
Yet the blackbird sings
in the cloud-dense lateness
and tears a hole right through
and the shivering alarm
hacks through the dead wood,
The half cut moon, deepest neutral
hangs down and the strings are cut.
Illusions falter - we deserve nothing,
with our dreams full of doppelgangers,
unborn declarations, we deserve
nothing less, nothing more than this,
and at the wrong hour, pitch perfect
siren of the heartless unease -
we reset our clocks.
as the sonnet breaks itself, falls to ash,
dawn becomes a vagrant,
missing amongst the refuse of night
Jane Commane runs Nine Arches Press with Matt Nunn, and they also co-edit Under the Radar magazine. She is currently working on a first collection, due out in Summer 2010. She has also recently worked with visitors at the Bronte Parsonage in Haworth, and some of the resulting poems can be viewed here.