Unable, until the end

by Jonathan Grimwood

 

The old gods come by,
sullen or joyful according
to instinct. A few,
near silent shadows
now.

Goldenrod, dog rose,
pearlwort, seapink

Horns worn lightly;
thorns, less
so.

Some fashions don’t change,
it seems.

The skull of a fox
for an orb, an antler,
as sceptre.

They are sad not to find you; not
even your echo off
a broken wall.

They thought you undying
like them; you, who knew
them so well.

They’d decided you must be
the same, with your coming
and going.

A little ragged, a little
smart, a little held
between
worlds.

Unable, until the end,
to decide in which if any,
you belong

 

 

---

Jonathan Grimwood is a Maltese born novelist and poet, who grew up in the Far East and Scandinavia. He lives in Edinburgh, with his partner Sam Baker, and an opiate addicted street cat. He has written for a number of national newspapers. He is on Insta as joncourtenaygrimwood and Bluesky as @joncg.bsky.social.