Helen Mort

I know poems are more N’s thing, but I saw Helen reading her poetry last night at Word Life and thought they were beautiful, so wanted to share one with you, I hope you don’t mind. If you click on the title it takes you to an amazon (sorry) link to the publication of her’s.

Litton Mill
Hold me, you said,
the way a glove is held by water.
Black, fingerless, we’d watched it
clutch a path across the pond,
never sure if it was water or wool that clung fast.
The mills are plush apartments now,
flanked by stiff-backed chimneys

and you ache for living voices,
the clank and jostle of machinery,
for something to move in this glassy pool
where once, you were the waterwheel,
I, the dull silver it must
catch and release
as if it can’t be held



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