Meteorite

caught by a security

camera’s gaze

and people’s phones

held slant-wise

against the dark –

fleeting, fleeing star

I watch again and again

on screen

and on TV someone says

she wishes it had fallen

on her drive-way so she

could start

a meteorite museum

and I wish I’d seen

its shining moments

outside in real time

as it journeyed

and I wonder whether

it reached earth

sinking into sand

to be found

in the future

or never

as it burned up in the air

Hawthorn on the Cliff Path

Your gnarled limbs gleam with rain

and are stitched with moss.

Your small leaves can be eaten

in spring but are now frost-burnt.

Once, you were a scarlet berry

dropped onto chalk and flint.

Slow growing, defended by thorns,

the sea winds have carved you.

A landmark on my path,

your blossom could heal my heart.

__________

Sarah Barr lives in Dorset and writes poetry and fiction. Her poems have appeared in the

Bridport Prize anthologies, The Best New British and Irish Poets 2019-2021, Cornish

Modern Poetries, The Frogmore Papers 100, short édition, The High Window, and elsewhere.

Her poetry pamphlet January appeared in 2020 (Maytree Press).