One Poem by Derek Brown

Deborah Kerr

One more age of possibility,
the undying hour of never.
The lost man awaits his bus,
mutters to himself “Oh Mother”.

I’m in love with Deborah Kerr,
she’s been dead for years.
The priest beside his church
recounts a row of tears.

I lose my memory of forgetting,
the starlings rise once more,
to their own solidity,
above the discount store

and the dormant Christmas lights
and the automatic trees.
A strange determination
sails the late November breeze.

In the tearoom’s frozen window
David Niven holds his watch,
his eyes say time is dead,
in a way it always was.

Interminable announcements,
declarations in reverse,
I stand beside those things
I sense cannot disperse.

And piercing through them all;
the vulgarity of grace,
the coarseness of beauty,
salvation’s painted face.

 

Derek Brown was born and raised in Glasgow, Scotland. He has previously been published in various New Voices Press anthologies, Omphalos Issue 12, Amethyst Review and Nine Muses Poetry.

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