• Rate this poem
User Review
5 (8 votes)


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.

Eyes open
And excoriated
While the heart.
The heart rushes.
And the water moves

The inconsequential
and mean
sloughs and is borne
and I

Ian Richardson

Ian Richardson

Ian Richardson is London-based UK author. He has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His previous publications include the literary magazines Bartleby Snopes, Litro and Here Comes Everything, the actors’ sourcebook 222 More Comedy Monologues published by Smith & Kraus, Spillwords and Between These Shores Literary & Arts Annual. He has also published in short story anthologies.
Ian Richardson

Latest posts by Ian Richardson (see all)

Read previous post:
Circling The Drain (CTD) written by Saira Viola at Spillwords.com
Circling The Drain (CTD)

Circling The Drain (CTD)  written by: Saira Viola @sairaviola   The glitzy eye of the capital dimmed by savage wage...