I.
Steadily the leaden night
Slips from Dawn's frozen fingers.
The age-worn suitcase too heavy for the boy.
The worn bills and flattened ticket in his pocket.
The train will be a long time coming.
It will come too soon.
II.
A far-off sun
Pierces the fog,
The Cyclops' stare,
The low rumble of lightning and the whistle
Of a great sky-bird.
The train groans to a stop.
III.
The boy sets his jaw. His eyes
Are sharp as javelins.
IV.
The train pulls away,
In slow rhythm, like the rowing of a boat,
The wild grass ripples like waves,
Faster, like the steady heartbeat of birds' wings,
Waiting to turn,
The gods know which way.
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Issue 61
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Editor's Note
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Poetry
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Fiction
Issue > Poetry
Matthew Fee
Matthew Fee has lived in both Utah and Maryland. He is currently studying philosophy at King's College, Cambridge. Recent work is published or forthcoming in journals such as The Laurel Review, Everyday Genius, Salamander, The Atlas Review, Dear Sir, Redactions, and Hunger Mountain.Fiction
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