Poem — Brian Turner


Tonight once more 
I find a single prayer and it is not for men

‑ W S Merwin

Each year you pass the day
on which you will die
Thistledown at evening
like asterisks flying
in the last of the sun

Indigo then ebony skies
the river clenching its fists
and baring its knuckles
at every bend
and moonlight polishing
the long glides

There is some chance
that you will apprehend
your best chance
when it comes along

Some chance that dreams
can still be a spur t
hat one day you might nail
the real thing


Brian Turner

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