Geraldine Connolly


Out of their secret places
in autumn, from under

dark logs and smooth gravestones
they come, black snakes,
stripped, floating free

in the golden September sunlight
which drifts as they try
to hold onto it.

They lay their bodies
across our warm paths,
branches of misspent hours,

limbs from the low gullies.
Past school children and old men
they wind, making no sound

sliding the earth in silence,
riding a world that seems dull
and hazy, half-spent,

beautiful errors
that rise up as we gasp.
105 Total read