Resurgam
written by: Ian Richardson
I think of rivers
And the brush of weed on my back
And the flow of water over my face
And the round and round of blood flowing beneath
The flowing over
And the dull deep sound.
I desire the sharp stones
And round rocks
And gravel
And the stunning, numbing cold.
Sticklebacks.
Eyes open
And excoriated
And
Clear.
While the heart.
The heart rushes.
And the water moves
The inconsequential
and mean
sloughs and is borne
and I
remain.
Latest posts by Ian Richardson (see all)
- On Missing National Bad Poetry Day on the 18th of August - September 8, 2020
- Farewell - November 26, 2019
- Resurgam - September 6, 2018