Poetry

A good friend of mine is a talented poet. Introducing Claire Jane Carter, conjurer of images through words.

She wrote this poem in response to some ink and salt experiment I was playing with...

A small house sits,
flicked in beside
the flaring trees
salted and wet
and yet somehow on fire.
Mud flats simmer in the ink thick space
that extends, hiding god knows what
to the end of the page
What swims in the white?
Turns its milk eyes to the sky
to watch as
overhead you wreak detailed chaos.
Something mineral
crackles, bleeds,
spikes the night,
oils in clouds with the residue
of its own burning.
Is this simply a
a salt slight of hand
from whoever would build that house
on the edge of such a catalyst.