Matthew Spittles poetry

  Harvest
 
The corn has toiled all summer,
gasping for air on hot days,
braving storms, riding in
symphony with westerly gusts.
 
An orange, blood moon arrives early
and sits, ballooning, fixed low on the horizon,
mesmerising the thin clouds,
holding the earth in its gaze.
 
In the dusk-dark hours
the crop is cut to stubble,
machines grinding,
from one end to the other,
 
Dusting the air, burying
into the moth-light,
right up to the midnight hour,
then all falls silent.
 
Against the low hung moon,
a barn owl lifts into the warm air,
rising then tilting, as if to inspect
the dry, ravaged ground.
 
Insomnia
 
Lost in the great swell of night,
a tireless wind
testing fragile walls,
restless rain gusting.
 
From a roar of troubled surf,
an infinity of darkness,
dreams are loose
in a sleepless mind at sea.
 
Without bearings,
in an empty bed,
drowning, slowly,
then eventually,
 
Waking,
washed-up
on the rough edge
of another day.


Matthew has written since an early age and recently published ‘Beginnings’, a collection of his more recent poetry. Drawing inspiration from the countryside
his work explores the wildlife and wonders of the natural world. Matthew moved to Lincolnshire eight years ago and attends writing groups in Sleaford, Lincoln and Stamford. He also qualified as a Hill & Moorland Leader earlier this year

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