crumpled overcoat in summer
this podium reserved for talking
i listen to the river, to seagulls
to this dishevelled person
with monuments for bones, who gambles away the hills & lakes
risks losing what he breathes
he rolls in his own contours, plays his hand, hopes it
will define the person he really is
his childhood slides through a clarinet’s thirst for hitting high notes
i listen to the river & watch
a commuter train scorches past
on the platform a small boy bites into his granny’s apple.
Iain Britton is an Aotearoa New Zealand poet. His latest collection is “The Intaglio Poems” (Hesterglock Press).
This article appears in the 27 Jan 2021 issue of the New Statesman, The Lost