Stirring : A Literary Collection

Connor Jordan


We race the serpentine road,
unable to sit in the cramped rooms of home,
breath beating walls and ceilings like the desires of
veering swifts.

Lining the highway with yearning,
wild angelica, the white bride of May,
has clambered from winter's scoured ditches.

You are tracing, with your tiny hand,
the unfurled maps, the blocked arteries of roads;
threads of railway lead your pulsing thought to torn
pieces of horizon.

Across the meridian of noon the fields
are ochre and cornelian. My hands ache
like waterfalls but among the burnished bronzed heads
of meadow grass and their labyrinths you are yearning

When the azurite channels of evening
brim, and I wake, my bunched pillow a threadbare
jacket, you are poised, gazing, eyes for labyrinths,
for the imagined hero drawn on your dazzling spool of

Now I interpret, head weighing on the meadow
and imagining abandon, the tongues of aspen,
sighing with snapped thread; while above the glimmering
woman of night presses sadly to her brow a wrist
of constellations.

Location: County Down, Northern Ireland

Stirring : A Literary Collection

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