By Matthew Francis
All afternoon a reddish trickle
a sort of rust that shines and dances.
traveler finicking its way round
A finger felled in their path rocks them,
the air for subtle intelligence,
They are fidgety subjects to draw.
kill one, the juices evaporate
I dunked one in brandy. It struggled
I let it soak an hour, then dried it,
the grinning vice of its sideways jaw,
Some draft stirred it then. It rose to all
Source: Poetry (October 2014)
Matthew Francis is the author of four Faber and Faber poetry collections, most recently Muscovy (2013). He lives in West Wales, UK, and lectures in creative writing at Aberystwyth University.
More Poems about Nature
What Women Are Made Of
We are all ventricle, spine, lung, larynx, and gut.
Clavicle and nape, what lies forked in an open palm;
we are follicle and temple. We are ankle, arch,
sole. Pore and rib, pelvis and root
and tongue. We are wishbone and gland and molar
Of Tribulation, these are They,
Denoted by the White.
— Emily Dickinson
in the split geode
a Santa’s grotto
every surface —
like sea urchins’ —
in the doorways
sleepers from the womb
to make of anything succulent