Murk then bright. An unreliable schedule.
Sometimes black for weeks.
Sometimes glares for days. Even then
the view out is never clear, as if we only
see through a glass lightly.
Though there may be moving shapes,
dark matter. Some think: there’s a plan.
Others say: it’s random; also
that a bath tap’s running, far out in space.
Seth Crook rarely leaves the Isle of Mull. His poems travel for him. They have appeared in such places as Magma, The Rialto, Envoi, Gutter, New Writing Scotland, The Interpreter’s House, Prole, and Antiphon. And recently in various anthologies from Three Drops Press.
