top of page

2 poems by Rebecca Ferrier


An obsession of mists stands inside the city opens light to the light. I have never

seen the street like this as rooms of haloes until the haar came faltering.

It got dark while we were in the cinema

as new foam lost from sea having never known land

to find it hobbled

unmoving water once now shapeless as gloves.

It is November in Edinburgh.

No one told the skies. Beside you

I archived the weather

left white as ox tongue: itself a calcified memory

of what it used to take from shore.

It phases almost teenage fickle as a cat-mouth. I could ask

I thought you liked the sun? or is that too yesterday? I cannot keep

up with you vaultless as reflection head craned back

saying fog from other seas tastes of the seas they’re from.

Open each streetlight the lid of myself.

Like a Politician

Nothing is true

to your picture of it

How much is gifted to shape yourself a vase

Your lungs their glass-ground opacity

I traced sun in a bell sky

hot enough to blow a cylinder

In my view a keyhole

your belly

covers the blue covers my belly

I am inside the door without a side to wait on

and never know what goes after

How much can be made unmade

with a bellow

You see right to the bulb of me

you built it that way


Rebecca Ferrier won the Bridge Award in 2020 and funding for her debut novel

from Creative Scotland in 2021. Her recent poetry has been published by Lighthouse and west word revue (forthcoming). Her latest prose can be found with Gutter and The New Gothic Review (forthcoming).


bottom of page