Hush now,
The sound of the moon
Budding on the float of her own white voice,
Her call, like
Spider silk strung from the darkest
Branches, swaying woozily.
Moon turns her ripe eye
To the ground, making
Music that melts,
The whole wood
Lit with alarm,
Dawn like a black knife.
Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Interpreters House, Ink In Thirds, The Penwood Review, The Chiron Review and Rust and Moth. Her work also features or is forthcoming in a number of anthologies, including Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections 13. This year her poem ‘Sunday School’ was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Foxglove Journal 