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).
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