Paul Burns – two poems

unspring

just before your eyes open
when the dream has an intensity
that makes it real
but at the same time magic

because it is before spring
or in the last of winter when spring is sensed
and before the trees ran out
too fast to bud, leaf and fall
before the process is revealed

inked in and stamped
that is the time when your finger feel
they can clutch something
out of the air, diamonds from the light
on the sea, gold seamed among the trees

and you open your eyes


call box

in red kiosks
at the corner of a Bloomsbury square
and in the Isle of Barra,
in a Cotswold village, the cold

concrete bases with flattened butts
piss stink and a view onto
another slow twilight
the black receivers wait

each light a yellow signal
to blackness, in starfields
of other boxes, shelters for one
or huddled couples, waiting

the enemy is not recording them.
He is sheltering from a storm of shellfire
somewhere in the future and we
are futureproofed with vanity, past victories

quiet countryside and stolid boxes
our pale lights flickering now
through summer beech trees,
ignored by London traffic, and
the frozen billions of suns


Paul Burns lives in rural South Cheshire, working with his wife on their flower farm. He plays and teaches guitar and writes when not too tired from carting compost.

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One thought on “Paul Burns – two poems

  1. Robert Nisbet May 15, 2017 / 8:42 am

    I really like ‘unspring’. This surely is one very important province of the poet – those half-magical moments which lie on the fringes of our logical awareness. Thank you, Paul.

    Liked by 1 person

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