Illness
 

Shadows move where thrushes pick
a few grains. The sky pours
ambiguous benediction. A derelict

fence sags under years
of vines. I am young
still, in this light that claws

furrows across the long
rebellious grass, this unhealed edge
of song.

Here, where a doubt may lodge
its cancer, here the masked surgeon
freezes and tweaks. Little damage

shows: a scar, a wan
non-committal smile, a shaven
head shivering in the rain.
 
 

Alison Croggon

Back to Divan Contents