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