Poetry found on All Soul’s eve Gerry Stewart

Gerry Stewart

Pink-fingered, dawn drowses an hour longer before rising, but we both long to pull the covers back over our cold shoulders.

My ragged thoughts drop to the pavement, four hoodie crows pecking their disappointment at another Monday.

A splashing gold tree waves its last goodbyes in the graveyard amidst candle stubs and frost-bitten roses.

At the harbour, necking iron cranes pause to raise their sullen heads as I pass, uncertain how I’ve gotten this far.

Umbrellas of light gather the mist close, watching the city crawl forward, reluctant, coffee stained.

It lifts its gray skirt above the shadowed buildings, allowing me to descend into the grind.