Eyewear is glad to feature a new poem by Ben Parker today. Parker studied creative writing at UEA and now lives and works in Oxford.
The Cam climbs out from under mist. The heads
of tulips show. In galleries of oak
the blackbirds cough dissent, the pigeons wake.
Across the river’s surface golden blades
of Darter’s flash. And by the bank he stands:
the naturalist in muddied shoes and cloak,
at rest against a still-mossed hazel stick
which now he nudges up against a fold
of bark and deftly turns it back. Beneath,
two beetles crouch. He bends to shut their shells
inside his palms. And then the earth reveals
a third, too rare to lose. Right hand to mouth
he stores one prize, but then recoils and spills
all three: the sting of acid, and an oath.
poem by Ben Parker; published with permission of the author.
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