by Leah Armstead
One face among
many—delicate
as a serpentine
moonray,
utterly empty,
a secret face,
mouth open
as the night is
but mute—bears
candle-lit eyes
witnessing
the world
without interest.
Lost poems mean
nothing.
Friendships pale.
There is just seeing:
meaningless.
If only my gaze
could be met and
my name called out,
and to know that it
mattered, did not
need alteration,
as from a high altitude
landscape unfolds
leaving no doubts,
no question at all
that it should
or could be
anything other than
what it is.
Leah Armstead lives in Aberystwyth and has had poems published in Ragged Raven, Leaf Books, Recusant, and Pipeworks among others.
The Pygmy Giant 