by Jonathan Butcher
streets, almost like tunnels,
these walls and buildings
simmers under this depleting
abandoned car parks laden
with tags and
broken glass still offer a slight breeze of calm.
that blend of tranquil fauna
steel still fail to offer any balance.
Their waters like
blackened mirrors; to dip
even a toe would
entice a fear far deeper
surrounding, soot-stained walls.
The cold air
retains its mobility, our blood
slowly warms like
neglected mud in summer,
we see the
water's pollutants slowly rise
releasing a filth ridden mosaic
that should remain hidden.
And those dim
windows still offer up secrets
we never had the
courage to accept, let alone
freshness, however, still remains
if only in our
heads, that warmth only a mile
away each side,
if we allow this to collapse.
Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield. He has had work appear in
various print and online publications, including Popshot, The Transnational, Sick-Lit,
Drunk Monkeys, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, and others. He edits the online poetry journal Fixator Press, through which his third
chapbook, Corroded Gardens, was published.
W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and educator. He is the author of eight books
including Imagination: The Art of W. Jack Savage (wjacksavage.com). To
date, more than fifty of Jack’s short stories and over a thousand of his
paintings and drawings have been published worldwide. Jack and his wife Kathy
live in Monrovia, California.