Saturday 5 November 2016

1 Poem by John Grey


In the slow brown river
behind the abandoned mill,
sludge, trash, and factory offal
curdle in the current.

No songbirds in the surrounding trees.
No squirrels.
Not even a water rat.

The sun breaks through
but like an intruder,
poking around in weeds and grass,
climbing brick walls
to look in on rusty machinery.

A solitary gar glides
close to the bank,
its skin and scales,
alligator hard.

Life at last.
But I cannot bring myself
to say "aha!"


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Nebo.

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