ISSN 1758-6488
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Two poems Poetry |
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Donna
Her younger brother stole across the river
to boost beer-kegs from the Royal Hotel
and float them back across the river.
In accordance with all classical myth,
he hadn’t bargained on the current.
The weirgate dredged him, dead.
Music was heaven to Donna, heaven
overheard on earth, sifting down from
the shifting spheres or an open window,
the hi-hat moon. Heaven, with the heat
of evening, and her singing coming down
the stairs. Billie or Nina or Dinah.
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