Sunday, September 27, 2015


©  Steve King
All rights reserved

The clockface called it morning,
but without sense of newness,
nor of a moment pregnant
with light upon the world:
time enough to count the hours backward.

My sigh rolled across
a clutch of gathered blankets,
ill wind coursing on a naked peak.

My shadow fell across the emptiness—
stormclouds close upon a fallow field.

A new poem for The Poetry Pantry