One Poem by James Walton

Wuthering

for a while I was Cathy and that knocking was your return because pain has no gender its seeking ways of counterpoint slim branches on the window wispy enough getting through the social veneer of a card house teeter your breath held within mine from the firebox the slow drumming still so young all wings nothing gained by asking it fell to this place took the day when offered lost the latch key of reason resumes by night confused upon release it hovers browses Christmas lights as any honeyeater might although your hands were gentle enough for rescue before waking again to deconstruct this dangerous allure our palms all moony on the glass cupped enough to settle here

 

James Walton was a librarian, a farm labourer, and mostly a public sector union official. He is published in many anthologies, journals, and newspapers. He is now old enough to be almost invisible.

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