Cirencester Scene


Somewhere Else Writers now have a slot in Cirencester Scene, a monthly magazine delivered to 12,000 homes in the Cirencester area.


July 2018

Poetry by Frank McMahon


New laundered linen, the duvet crinkling

as I slide underneath, the amber glow

of the night-light tints the ceiling. Slow, slow

as the day sheds its weights and toils and I

rise lighter through solipsistic dreams

to the clearing in the wood where the wind

has brought its hoard from the workings of the day:

Dreck, scattered seeds, inconsequential

dust, slivers of precious stones, the object now

of nocturnal sift, pannage and salvage,

faint rustles of wing and fur as I float

under starlight. Morning dull and bleary

reveals the cleared field. Whatever was preserved

may be found perhaps in the archives

of the trees: haze, dabs of gathered light.



Above, the organ pipes, cerulean

blue, gold bands, apex pointing skywards.

Beneath it all the proclamation bold:

Hallelujah! Four players fight and chase

his demons, thudding the triple hammer-

blows, night-time’s terror, suitcase ready packed.

They scrape his twisted entrails across their

fretted strings, follow/lead him underground,

to a basement. Where all light is banished.

Into the keyhole he whispers his name.