james mcgonigal
Poet  •  Critic

Contact  James McGonigal


Grey trees whose lungs had filled up with winter
suddenly exhaled a breath of leaves.

You caught the dawn train south. The power stack
was already pointing its beam of smoke

straight in the morning’s face. Houses held up
chilled hands to the sun: plum-coloured light

glowed through their nails and entered the room
where we had dipped fingers

in the same dish of hours. Beside the gate
a little bush was shouldering its weight

of blossom and seemed about to stagger up the path
and post a lifetime’s letters, one by one

onto the tiles behind the locked storm doors.

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