Poetry

 

 

Neil Rollinson

Blackbird

A country lane, riding home
through a deep frost.
Like the headlong rush into sleep
it happened; the calm,
balletic movement of a bike through the air.
The world was spinning madly.
When I came to rest,
I could feel the soft moss
against my cheeks. I was high
above everything.
I could see the driver of the car
stare through the windscreen,
my torso laid on the road,
steaming in the headlights.
It was difficult to think.
I remember the beauty
of the solid world, the lights
of a distant city, stars in the sky,
all of it fading fast.
I thought: if I don't call now,
they'll never find my head up here.
I tried to shout, but the blood
frothed in my mouth.
A blackbird was singing in my ear.

 

The Bed

I opened my mouth to breathe,
like I do in dreams,
and the water flowed into me.
I sank like a stone.
At first I thought it was pain;
it was just the beginning of bliss.
I could feel the buds in my throat
palpitate: the atavistic gills.
I saw the sand eel and tuna,
the plankton lifting in veils.
I breathed so deep I could taste
the salt and seaweed.
And I saw, as I fell, the dark
hull of the ship above me,
its cold shadow. Things glittered
in the gloom like stars in the sky.
I saw dolphins, blue and green.
I was laid in the sand, and the fish
came in thousands to pick me clean.
I loved the nights there,
the ultramarine, the moonlight,
the ghostly glow of the jellyfish
shifting like cloud above me.

 

 

Back to Poetry