Burning Bright

The eyes, of course, alight,
fitful as the ragged steps that
have carried them thus far, the
run-off from fields that cannot
contain a yearning, unsatisfied,
for the deep they still bear the
faint trace of, the memory of
the eternity from which both have
awoken but briefly, knowing only
the wounded rest of frozen,
harrowed ground, cracked and
withered branches unburdened by
the unwanted sobriety the coming
dry season will bring to many,
but not to her - barren,
comfortless, except for this
one small, bitter thing.

The Swifts

The swifts have returned before us,
their song shrill, wings beating a
flight about the bounds of the
guarded tower to which they have
been tempted, too, from their
long exile. Is it the speed with
which they evade our observation
that holds our eyes so fast?
The distance between us as great
as that they have traversed,
carrying with them the memory of
flight paths with which we are
conversant with the name alone?
We two must remain ever stranger,
one to the other, hoping to learn
just the simplest of lessons: that
the length of our sojourn bears the
same message as the morning dew,
the haste with which it melts
before the harsher heat of day.

The Gull

It is the same statue that it
sits upon. Both keep their lonely
vigil: the one changeable, the
other mutated by the unfamiliar
expression of time's brittle
passage, the syllables we have
become alienated to, stumble over.
After the one has passed the
other will remain, regarding
with disinterest the discordant,
receding tide. Is it the same gull?
It is the same statue that it sits upon,
making of the past an eternal present.

Author’s Biography

J.M. Summers was born and still lives in South Wales. Previous publication credits include Another Country from Gomer Press and various magazines / anthologies. The former editor of a number of small press magazines, he is currently working on his first collection.