John Hawkhead

bottomless well 
a stone sinks slowly
into the earth

— John Hawkhead

bloodwork

all the early clues

ignored

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

yellow clouds 
     swirls grow darker
  in the catheter

— John Hawkhead

quiet prayers

a room full of shadows

that look like wings

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

lifting a hagstone
from the breakwater
a locked-in scream

— John Hawkhead

a trail of blood

through virgin snow

stains that never fade

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

urban decay
a crack in the light
where the ice got in

— John Hawkhead

fog bound stones

crows uncreak dirges

to the dying light

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

entering darkness
a candle gutters wildly
in the skull’s sockets

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

darkness spreading under the hanging tree

— John Hawkhead

predator reflections in a shark tank

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

dry goods
hardly time to choose
the right coffin

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

gothic revival taking a breath at his open casket 

— John Hawkhead

my windfall where worms lie in wait

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

coming home 
from the hospice
a bag of silence

— John Hawkhead

winter burial

we all feel

the cold

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

lost wax process
the inner light before
the mortuary

— John Hawkhead

buckets and spades

small figures dig

for bodies

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

early death
the widow
lifts the veil

— John Hawkhead

another slow night

deciding what I should wear

to my funeral

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

comedian’s wake 
the casket lid closes
to canned laughter

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

spiralling snowflakes
that never quite settle
a small white coffin

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

many shades of dark 
a song of desolation
fills the crow’s fable

— John Hawkhead

dead on time

he let the grass grow

over his feet

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

coming out
of his shell
a skeleton

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

spirit level the coffin hits bottom

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

filling the basket
with cut flowers
a wicker coffin

— John Hawkhead

soft flurries

our old cat releases

her final purr

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

corrupted flesh
sentence long since passed
by tombstone crows

— John Hawkhead

widdershins dare

I find my friends

in the graveyard

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

night terrors
finding the cold remains
of a snapped key

— John Hawkhead

last star the dead of night

— John Hawkhead

John Hawkhead

dead growth
reaching through
the mortsafe

— John Hawkhead

valley whistle

the train turns darkness

into screams

— John Hawkhead