David Hughes

Rose in the snow 

Out of her head
She is carried like a relic
Naked Madonna of the night
Speaking in tongues
Her followers
Praying she will sober up
Before morning

She is too young
To be found this way
With her El Greco neck
Loose like a swans
And her nipples
Stiff in the cold
She is too young
And he to old

This ceremony
So ill conceived
This futile attempt
To revive her
Is bound to fail
But still he tries

He carries the guilt
Of those who impale
Those with blood on their hands
Always wondering
Whether they have made
The right choice

Dull days

Dull days,
The muse
Damp from the rain
And not wanting to share
Stares into the garden
Through my empty eyes
She doesn’t really care
That she casually uses me
As her scribe
(But only when she’s in the mood)

Today she says
Her words will only blot
The pages
If she gives them to me

Her dank hair is dripping
Like fresh ink
Getting in the way
As she says she is
Too tired to think

Dull days like this
Make me wonder
Whether she will ever
Find her spirit again
And pursuade me
To write her thoughts
Down once more

Flights, Issue Nine, June 2023