Morning Garden by Jonathan Butcher

Those leaves slip under foot, that grey
afternoon now my morning. Those spires
of faded brick greet us once more, like
morning sparrows; deafening us but without
a visible presence.

Dog walkers and lost children creep through
this mist, the waxed faces hang almost ornamental
like. Their message never reaches passed their
cracked lips, their hands never attempt to
form gestures.

Those windows set in steel over the horizon,
that we never seem to reach, like a rainbow’s
withered end, bearing a pot full of piss and
broken glass. Again our palms remain open,
crossed with rusted silver.

And overhead the light slowly creeps through
as we throw down petals that wilt at the first
touch of pavement, no way to mark our path
back home, This journey once again only
achieved through fading memory.

Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England and has been writing poetry for around ten years. He has had work appear in various print and online publications, most recently at Odd Ball Magazine, Mad Swirl, Dead Snakes, Your One Phone Call and The Transnational. His second chapbook ‘Broken Slates’ has been published by Flutter Press.

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