Ewen Glass




Rendered wall by stinking hellebore,

you are a hip-bone flashing grey in bloom.

The kitchen overlooks you,

we outgrow but don’t outlive you.

The dorsal side of hands in sud,

our dishwater fouling pipe and paving stone,

wandering coffee grains making map

to lower ground, and your buttress.

Ants will follow soon, manic, productive,

spelling out words on your clean lime canvas:

we                          were          all here                   yes





Ewen Glass is a Northern Irish poet who lives in England with two dogs, a tortoise and lots of self-doubt; on a given day, any or all of these can be snapping at his heels. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Bridge Eight, Poetry Scotland, Maudlin House, Belfast Review and elsewhere.