Poetry by Christian Ward


Letter Writing

Long vowels drip from the kitchen
tap. The fridge hums short syllables. 

My pen, eager to imitate, stammers
out the words I miss you; my heart 

hammering each word to the walls
of my chest when I sleep.
 
The Sea

Walking down the street,
I empty my pockets
of the sea I was looking
after for you. Mussels
come tumbling first,
cracking open their castanet
shells on the pavement.
Acres of seaweed and oysters.
Taking a deep breath,
I pour an ocean into the middle
of the road. Islands of people
and cars bob in the newly created sea.
Somewhere amongst this
is an old trawler. You are inside,
sending signals back to a lighthouse
forgotten in a trouser pocket.

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