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The Linnet's Wings

Cold Cast by Clare McCotter

Evening in Dublin by the canal 

we walk among barefoot tracks 

tracing new moons

in the curve of a shoulder

stopping to rest a hand 

on the head 

of a skeleton dog. 

Their sea-grey rock pool eyes

deep set in bone 

jutting like stars through papyrus. 




Night in Budapest by the Danube

flowing icy and black

beside brogues 

with shabby uppers

laced high heels

scuffed men’s boots 

rusting beside 

a child’s stumpy pair.

And inviting 

a foot to slip inside

the peak toe sling back

given meager warmth

from a tea candle’s little light.




Borderland between day and night 

in Lampedusa by the Med 

spiriting away

their juniper twigs and crystal

the gypsies are gone

and the flowers sellers

still have not come.

In the empty hour 

before dawn

all is calm and turquoise

nothing stirs 

save the last star

flickering on the horizon 

it will vanish soon.

Falling into a reef of cold cast shoes

the sea’s corroded floor.


The Linnets Wings