In the absence of blackberries
what buds on the tongue
is the unproven dough
of a morning, blue
as your first-kissed body.
You try and conjure the waterfall
of a running tap, colander fat
with the day’s haul, a mouth
stained with joy. But this is central
London and there are trains
of people longer than any hedgerow.
What hits at the back of the throat
is a necessary reminiscence:
acidic, bittersweet, autumn’s overdue gift.
Singularities
Every blackberry is a black hole.
Does that sound right? Every blackbird
is a carrier of night. What gestates
in their stomach is a staccato
of the day’s longing – all filigree
and verdigris once caught in the batea
of a fox’s eye. What’s sifted out
is starlight in a sonata of gravitational
waves. The berries ripen. The brambles
warp their own microcosm,
feathers ride the convulsing tide
of space-time. This is nothing
compared to the emptiness
without you.
Poetry by Christian Ward
Christian Ward is a UK-based poet with recent work in Dust, Free the Verse, Loch Raven Review, Cider Press Review and elsewhere. He won the first 2024 London Independent Story Prize for poetry and the 2024 Maria Edgeworth Festival Poetry Competition.
