• Poetry

    “The Bell” by Martin Jago

    September 30, 2019 /
    It’s coming back, the black brick of despair
    they made you dive for, early September,
    a monument today, stacked plastic chairs
    in blazing orange glory. Dust remembers
    the chorus of the great assembly hall,
    and matron’s kindness hanging by a hinge
    beneath the gralloch of its flattened walls.
    Remember the smell of chlorine on your skin,
    the way you used lick it, smell your hand?
    The piano opens in a toothless yawn
    and with the slow sweep of a mop the sand
    snakes past,
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