Jo Bratten

Sky pool

Now we have carved mountains
from the sky and buttressed it in steel
and glass, on the ground sunlight loses
its way; wildflower meadows forget
how to grow, astroturf glows like green
remembered grass and refuse trucks blink
endless through shadow streets like foxes;
the last pair of swallows nests in a cage
of bright metal. The cranes are departed.
There is nothing left to build. And up here,
at the top of it all, a sky pool, miles long;
a lone swimmer, counting laps, wondering
what gave the butterfly stroke its name.

It Doesn’t Snow Here Anymore

January plays grey and brown on loop
and you long for the swift
smell of pine, crunch of boot,
that ice bright bird sound.

You’ve half a mind to throw yourself
on every discarded Christmas tree
along the street, embrace the stiff limbs
and sniff, try to find that cold smell;
or maybe carry them to the park, make
a forest, walk in it, watch the dead needles
dance, resurrect something, call down snow
thick and Narnian, bury something in it.

Or maybe just go in, watch
The Snowman in reverse:
how he’s gone and then he’s here
and you’re flying and then he’s never
existed and there’s fresh snowfall
and it’s all to look forward to.

Jo Bratten’s poetry has appeared in a variety of journals, including bath magg, The North, Poetry Birmingham, The Rialto and Under the Radar. Her debut pamphlet, Climacteric, is published by Fly on the Wall Press. She lives in London. www.jobratten.co.uk