by Andy S Barritt
Beneath the cloud palaces of August
my flame burns smokeless:
an air sign rising in a river of glass.
Watching the black curl of history
I’m terrified that this magic
will take more than I wish to give.
Diaries, letters, photographs of you:
bright fingers wear your faces
as tarnished rings loosening to ash.
Andy S Barritt is an East Midlands-based poet and writer who is interested in describing brief instants just slightly widdershins of the everyday: bright fragments born from chance fluctuations in the flow of experience.