I was not bothered by the stitching under your eye
until we reached the plateau and you fell in the heather
where a barbed wire fence covered a seam in the sky,

stitching the clods of earth and the clouds together
as if it would take no more than a turn of the wind
to unthread each half and lift one clean of the other,

shearing the sky to a darkness that would never end,
with one of us tumbling upwards in perpetual freefall
the other strung on a barbed knot of steel by one hand,

all life on the globe scabbing over like a loose eyeball
unmoored on a nerve and dulling to cataracts slowly,
the dry world darkening, fences and heather and all.

Dearest reader! Our newsletter!

Sign up to our newsletter for the latest content, freebies, news and competition updates, right to your inbox. From the oldest literary periodical in the UK.

You can unsubscribe any time by clicking the link in the footer of any email you receive from us, or directly on info@thelondonmagazine.org. Find our privacy policies and terms of use at the bottom of our website.