she collects minutes
from dawn’s early morning air
the freshest hours
places them in odd socks
to hang from oak trees
for rooks to pick at
and unravel time
The radio tried to warn me, with songs
that spelled out disaster. Lyrical omens
I kept way back behind thought
of action – cynical superstition,
a frequency unheeded. Consequence
of dismissive coincidences.
Specks of toothpaste on the mirror
making foreign constellations –
they spoke of another place
within this time, dared me
to follow them. I chose the truth
I thought I knew, and stayed behind.
Now ravens that rule
from Pugin’s pinnacle
taunt me – mocking calls
they know all the directions
that don’t lead home, they see
I am misplaced and know
I burned the map.
KC Bailey is a writer/poet from the UK. When not writing, reading or walking her dog, she practices Tai Chi and drinks Earl Grey tea, though hasn’t yet mastered the art of doing both at the same time. Publication credits for poetry, fiction and non-fiction include Black Bough Poetry, Monkey Kettle, The Ekphrastic Review, CaféLit and the BBC. She has recently completed her MA in Creative Writing and can be found on Twitter @KCBailey_Writer.
photo by Mehmet Turgut Kirkgoz (via unsplash)