'At the start, it’s no more than a fist' Photo: by Alexandru Acea on Unsplash.
The heart and the hour
Poem by Angela Arnold
by Angela Arnold
6th November 2020
At the start,
it’s no more than a fist, doing that
opening, shutting, pumping business.
In-between-time
it twists, squirms, turns, refusing
to be caught.
At the end
it’s pure wax under heat:
gladly feels the failure to understand.
