the bookmark lay still on the floor,
a corpse unmoved by the scene.

Night dragged in like a dead wolf
in the hands of a tired hunter,
The carcass smothered my light
and brought death to the last of the day.

Now the garden fades into shadow and
the apple tree sulks,
lashed by acid winter rain
that bites at the soil, gnawing at its soft
and gentle countenance.

The heating kicked in and I sat up, blinking,
clutching a detective novel,
the bookmark lay still on the floor,
a corpse unmoved by the scene.

I made a cup of tea
in time for bed,
but behind me in the night
the dead wolf prowled
with hungry eyes,
walked around my house
in circles,
waiting for the light.

illustrations by Knysh Ksenya

About the Author

Brighton_typewriter_poet

Brighton_typewriter_poet (real name Howard Young) lives in Brighton, East Sussex with his wife and family. He uses the typewriter as a way of escaping the distractions of the digital age, often writing outside where possible. He often writes poems about the nature and history of the South Downs and other places too. He writes in free verse often leaving in mistakes as he types to show the spontaneity and honesty of the work. He also makes sculpture in stone and wall art using found objects.

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