Scene from July
Pink wall of glum sun with its birdsong blush
numb, like a cement bloom;
its scent a ruined yellow. This is not summer,
nor any truthful season. How life bends
to a weary scrape along a gulling codeine mist.
The blind days gaze like a black scrying mirror:
a glassy lie in a dusty summertime,
and the river runs a diamond spiderlight
below the heavy hill – a mottled grave.
Gillian Prew lives in Scotland and is the author of two recent chapbooks, DISCONNECTIONS (erbacce-press) and In the Broken Things (Virgogray Press). A previous self-published book, the idea of wings, is also available via Amazon. Her poems have been published widely online and in print, including Danse Macabre du Jour, Up the Staircase Quarterly, The Glasgow Review, Red Fez and Fragile Arts Quarterly. She has twice been short-listed for the erbacce-prize. She likes cats, crows and Dylan Thomas. Check out her website.