Poem
John McCullough
SPELL
SPELL
SPELL
This is the hour everythingon the street squeezes into itself,
when walls or a ladder
are on the cusp
before waves sweep in
or the new regime starts.
The one with the trees in charge.
When sun is thrown on a wet road
and you find yourself nodding,
feel your barren mouth opening
for the coins of light,
the lampposts’ orange moons
bursting Volvo bonnets.
Leaves are smaller gods now.
And the woman opposite
leaning over a cup
will some day come to own
all she might crave.
Except the field mouse of course,
the one from her dream,
its eager head twisting
through the hedge like yes.
© 2007, John McCullough
From: Cloudfish
Publisher: Pighog, Brighton
From: Cloudfish
Publisher: Pighog, Brighton
John McCullough
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1978)
John McCullough was born in Watford in 1978 and grew up there during the eighties and nineties. He studied English and Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia before completing an MA in Sexual Dissidence at the University of Sussex, followed by a PhD on Shakespeare and friendship. He still teaches creative writing there now, in addition to similar work at the Open University. His ...
Poems
Poems of John McCullough
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SPELL
This is the hour everythingon the street squeezes into itself,
when walls or a ladder
are on the cusp
before waves sweep in
or the new regime starts.
The one with the trees in charge.
When sun is thrown on a wet road
and you find yourself nodding,
feel your barren mouth opening
for the coins of light,
the lampposts’ orange moons
bursting Volvo bonnets.
Leaves are smaller gods now.
And the woman opposite
leaning over a cup
will some day come to own
all she might crave.
Except the field mouse of course,
the one from her dream,
its eager head twisting
through the hedge like yes.
From: Cloudfish
SPELL
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