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Two poems by Steven Milne
“Road Accident” and “Horses”
Stephen Milne
Road Accident
- A night of glassy ghosts in the meadows.
- A black night of ice and rain,
- winter’s voltage set hard to stun, the earth
- hammered into unpredictable motion.
- The road was closed, I later found, by death.
- By broken glass and metal frail as flowers
- wrapped around the branches of a cherry.
- If I had cared less, it could have been us,
- a red wreath burning like Sirius,
- star at the side of your head, halo of blood
- like petals on the undemonstrative lane.
- Instead it was our neighbor, a simple man
- whose life was unhallowed, whose wife broke down
- and crumpled like a pillow, impotent
- against grief, the exhumation of her fears
- and the ancient language of ice and fire.
Horses
- For Ellie
- The sun hunts them like ghosts in the trees.
- Bramble and thorn cradle their lost earth,
- the palaeography of their flesh
- and its fossil bones streaming with light.
- In their dark skulls, thunder bleeds
- like fields that have broken their hooves,
- their stray foals Jurassic as ferns,
- leaf-whispers between forest and plain.
- Unwavering, they gather to a stillness,
- echo of an arcane myth,
- translators of the divine solace.
- Their touch brings the wounded, running through time.
Stephen Milne lives and works in Lincolnshire in the United Kingdom. He has been previously published in a number of small magazines and journals and is married with six children. He is planning to release his first volume of poems, entitled Moorings, later this year.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Two poems by Steven Milne
“Road Accident” and “Horses”
Two poems by Steven Milne
“Road Accident” and “Horses”
Stephen Milne
Road Accident
- A night of glassy ghosts in the meadows.
- A black night of ice and rain,
- winter’s voltage set hard to stun, the earth
- hammered into unpredictable motion.
- The road was closed, I later found, by death.
- By broken glass and metal frail as flowers
- wrapped around the branches of a cherry.
- If I had cared less, it could have been us,
- a red wreath burning like Sirius,
- star at the side of your head, halo of blood
- like petals on the undemonstrative lane.
- Instead it was our neighbor, a simple man
- whose life was unhallowed, whose wife broke down
- and crumpled like a pillow, impotent
- against grief, the exhumation of her fears
- and the ancient language of ice and fire.
Horses
- For Ellie
- The sun hunts them like ghosts in the trees.
- Bramble and thorn cradle their lost earth,
- the palaeography of their flesh
- and its fossil bones streaming with light.
- In their dark skulls, thunder bleeds
- like fields that have broken their hooves,
- their stray foals Jurassic as ferns,
- leaf-whispers between forest and plain.
- Unwavering, they gather to a stillness,
- echo of an arcane myth,
- translators of the divine solace.
- Their touch brings the wounded, running through time.
Stephen Milne lives and works in Lincolnshire in the United Kingdom. He has been previously published in a number of small magazines and journals and is married with six children. He is planning to release his first volume of poems, entitled Moorings, later this year.
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