The touch of goldfinch wings in Apollo’s arc awakens a mind growing spiky yellow straw, pricking alert my life, as if a grass green park parches olive, then tints orange, before igniting delusions of divinity as a golden-crested Wren which rises, King of birdsong in serenity. The blackish-grey of my beak, pecking veinous blood from the back of my umber Eagle throne, as day declines to imperial purple, then to velvet black; frugal in the ink-scratch of my pen’s memorial. Platonic milky white smell of sleep pure as the snow under the blanket’s heap.
by John Moody
John lives on Scotland’s Clyde estuary. His work has been published in Dawntreader, Dreich magazine, The SquawkBack, PocketPoetry Southlight and in anthologies published by Pure Slush Books in Australia and Coin-Operated Press. He was Shortlisted for the EarlyWorks Press poetry competition in 2019 and 2020, and placed third in Scottish Association of Writers Short story competition in 2017.