On Brent Knoll – Liz Jones

We’re beached atop a lone hill, blown there by the solar wind
We’re lying
Perhaps we’ve been there two hours, perhaps three days, perhaps five minutes
Perhaps forever
Nothing has ever felt this real
So exposed, so scouring, so open to the depths of sky
Eye cells collapse and decay, slow unfurling, wraiths dancing
Wind pins us there, rushes, blood in the ears
Reports of traffic from a faraway system
We’re specimens, we’re cosmic dust, we’re nothing
Around us ghosts of past inhabitants are taking care
We’re purple with cold, blushed by warmth
Vibrating with the frequency of something ancient
White sun disc rests on a sweep of dark and light cloud, rests on a bank of rain, rests on a bed of spreading rays
Reveals that this is all touched by something we can’t know
Such splendour as may never come again, yet has always been there
Our two apple cores rotting where they lie
It could be real

Perhaps we died before we arrived
Perhaps we were born there
Perhaps it doesn’t matter



Liz Jones writes novels, short stories and poems for love. She also works as a freelance editor for money. She lives in Somerset with her two children. @ljedit


Image via Pixabay


cabinet of heed contents issue 16

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