Robert Ford





He first appeared only in an eye corner,
the image flickering through my open window
like a lightning bolt would’ve, bold,
yet fleeting enough to seem unreal.
Any mortal would’ve failed, and glissaded
down those greasy, pangolin-scale slates,
but his striding boasted of a certainty
way too genuine for the early morning,
so I guess he must’ve been a god, or
possibly an angel clutching a ticket home.
With the cathedral summit crested,
and my unnecessary attention now all his,
he raised two arms and punched a hole
in the unexpected emptiness above him,
before laughing his heart to pieces and
letting go of that burdensome anchor,
as he flew off to the other side of the sky.




Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland and writes poetry, fiction and non-fiction. His poems have appeared previously in Envoi, Firewords and Clear Poetry.

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