This poem is taken from Stand 237, 21(1) March - May 2023.
Two Poems
Rise
It’s not bombing downhill past the gym
with its fluorescent glass gently perspiring.
Or flexing my hamstrings on the bridge
as a dipper ducks and weaves underwater.
Or the white arms of an oak on the ridge
...
It’s not bombing downhill past the gym
with its fluorescent glass gently perspiring.
Or flexing my hamstrings on the bridge
as a dipper ducks and weaves underwater.
Or the white arms of an oak on the ridge
...
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