Gerry Stewart

Poetry Found on All Soul’s Eve

Pink-fingered, dawn drowses 
an hour longer before rising,
but we both long to pull the covers 
back over our cold shoulders.

My ragged thoughts drop 
to the pavement, four hoodie crows 
pecking their disappointment
at another Monday.

A splashing gold tree waves
its last goodbyes in the graveyard 
amidst candle stubs and frost-bitten roses.

At the harbour, necking iron cranes
pause to raise their sullen heads as I pass,
uncertain how I’ve gotten this far.

Umbrellas of light gather the mist close,
watching the city crawl forward,
reluctant, coffee stained.

It lifts its gray skirt 
above the shadowed buildings,
allowing me to descend 
into the grind.

A Breath of Garden for Dinner

Grind thyme and lemon with salt
to the kitchen’s hum, 
kettle and pot,
children’s voices asking
the eternal
what’s for dinner.

My cool palm 
carries the scent deeper,
kneading the day’s weight,
its push and pull,
into the dough.

knife on wood,
carrots and fingers
still engrained 
with soil I tended.

A step back 
to the pinched stem,
heel to shovel, 
cutting the earth,
to bring forth 

burnt toast and full bookshelves

withheld sleep tastes of pennies as night rusts to dawn

dust maps my wanderings through the house

a milk moon and stars poured over pages

crumbs of memory crunch underfoot

tick of titles down the spine 

like counting breaths

wool filling

my eyes



Flights, Issue Seven, December 2022