Friday, February 22, 2008

Alice Oswald

Pruning in Frost

Last night, without a sound,
a ghost of a world lay down on a world,

trees like dream-wrecks
coralled with increments of frost.

Found crevices
and wound and wound
the clock-spring cobwebs.

All life’s ribbon frozen mid-fling.

Oh I am
stone thumbs,
feet of glass.

Work knocks in me the winter’s nail.

I can imagine
Pain, turned heron,
could fly off slowly in a creak of wings.

And I’d be staring, like one of those
cold-holy and granite kings,
getting carved into this effigy of orchard.

From The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile

3 comments:

Glamourpuss said...

Phenomenal. Her use of language is extraordinary.

Puss

david santos said...

Hello, August!
Nice poem!
I loved this blog.

irishpoetry said...

Every fresh and refreshing poetry. Her skilful use of language is amazing. Thanks for sharing.