A Breaststroke Through Amber 

by David Morris

 

The clock

won’t keep its hands

behind glass.

Alarms in rank

ready to run

the meter.

Water summons sleep;

has it scatter on tile.

The duvet a ghost blanket.

 

The city dozing after 

a big, long beep.

Trees brushing its air.

Nothing about tonight, Boss,

wind murmurs 

on one of its rounds.

Manholes. 

Rabbit holes. 

A memory which tugs and hisses.

I follow the swoosh to a drain.

 

Wells stacked with tetrominos.

Taps run cotton wool.

I swim with salmon

back from the fill

of the ocean.

Hills in thrall to slopes

tell of footholds 

on far inclines.

We’ll jump the floorboards below

lest they turn to metal ceiling.

 

What’s that? You want to meet

on the Highlands for snow?

OK, I’ll just shovel cloud 

from the rest of the craters

before calling on the Cause Way. 

 

Here We Go

by David Morris

 

Hug us, the pair of television sets said,  

as the street screeched. Now take us to the

skip, they whispered, after I had kneeled.

 

So I did: after all, they’d carried black 

and white in their backs; did the donkey

work before the colour came.

 

What about you? to the pair facing a hallway 

wall. No, we’re fine, they said, we’ll be on our

way once the right draught comes in.

 

What’s this about a skip? shouted 

a carousel horse, to which chariot

blinked and dragon rolled an eye.

 

I can’t take you, I said, taking a drag of a

cigarette; you’re the main draw. Give me 

one of them, the horse snapped.

 

Don’t like the taste, it said, in-between

puffs: I just want something with a clear

beginning and end.

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Cover photo by Steve Huntington on Unsplash

Centre photo by Dave Weatherall on Unsplash