Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Two

Paul Howarth


The dog's green world has vanished again. He calls it in tight circles, pounding white. The garden flattens in fear at leaf-scape beaten into baroque, but smart birds have found their trees. Life is in stark contrast. Starlings are ten to a squabble. The pond has sunk and left a grey stone. New Year is under sculpture, hidden yet, a gift I am not to see. It will be like the old, but not. It will have soaked up white: windows cannot keep this thing out, and seeing the wren in this scenery stacked up to the sky makes me tremble, as if her hedge-throne rocked, thorned leaves slicing their way free. White is forming again, so light and yet so heavy. They call it virgin, but it is female rape, massive, unkillable, birthing a secret year, large eyelids sealed close, pulse steady. Already the white fingers poke into every corner.