Jo Bratten
NASA says the moon is shrinking but I’m not
going to write a poem about it.
Its iron core is cooling and its surface is creasing.
A grape, they say, shrivelling into a raisin.
This morning I woke early and walked quickly.
The sarcococca filled the dark with honey.
Light was born again above the clouds.
Something heaved in the turned earth.
Water poured from burst pipes and found the river.
This morning I woke early and stood in the park
before sunrise and explained to the birds what grace means.
They did not listen. They never tire of their bodies.
This morning I woke early.
Gravity happened again and again and again.
Jo Bratten is a London-based poet. Her poetry has been published in a range of journals, including Bad Lilies, The London Magazine, Poetry Birmingham, Poetry Wales, The North and The Rialto. Her pamphlet, Climacteric, was published by Fly on the Wall Press.
andotherpoems.com 