since the blackslam collision
of stars and tarmac,
the bloodbang in her tiny head,
breath creeping out and away
from the streetlight blare
we still expect
her raven howl on the stair,
her softpaw tread across pillows,
a gentle weight settling between us
October ends, cloudless and cold.
Across a deepening sky she stretches,
the tip of each claw embedded
She shimmers in snailscript,
the lucent geometry of spiders,
timmering leaftip dew.
The curve of her back amazes my hand:
she defines the space that is below her,
that is no longer tangible;
a place of black light,
the hallowed sky.
She is still here.
Her image ghosts the night
like unexpected frost.
She is the intake of breath when
headlights slice shadows,
when the world stops
and something running
catches your eye.
Jane Lovell won the Flambard Prize in 2015 and has been shortlisted for several awards including the Basil Bunting Prize, the Robert Graves Prize and Periplum Book Award. She has been published by Against the Grain Press, Night River Wood, and Coast to Coast to Coast. Her latest collection This Tilting Earth is published by Seren. Jane also writes for Elementum Journal and Dark Mountain. She is currently Writer-in-Residence at Rye Harbour Nature Reserve and runs the Mid Kent Stanza group for the Poetry Society.