by Sarah Edwards

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Clouds
(golden like clichés)
impose themselves against the air,
emperors of the dying night.

I suck in air
with the desperation of a child in the sea,
gurgling
and gasping
while dawn quickens around me.

By the banks of cut-glass lakes
Autumn sleeps while Winter wakes.

Rhythmic movement
(one two three
              one two three
                            slow)
repetitive but flawed,
awkward in the morning,
where all else gleams
and rests.

 

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Sarah Edwards is a student, tutor, coach, and tour guide. She’s originally from a very small town, and now lives in a larger one. She writes in her spare time, when she has any. She really does spend a lot of time in boats at dawn.