Two poems

Gillian Allnutt

My hands, yes

I have excommunicated them

for there is no more ceaselessness in them.

Yes, they are sitting comfortably

beneath the emptied udders of the moon 

as women worn and washed and stained with transient dream

beyond the apple-tree of Eden.

Silent now the steppes of Central Asia where I once imagined them

as horsemen of apocalypse, of stone.


Truth is the ash they had to cut down at Flass Hall

Whose black uncompromising bud would not and never will be at our beck and call.

Truth – as we, foolish, applaud with saucepan and wooden spoon –

Is the ambulance standing alone in the back lane.

Esh Winning, County Durham, 20 April 2020

APRIL 2023 Gillian Allnutt MONK

Our beautiful 180 page print anthology is now available, at £15. Click here to order.


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