Cast like a pelt
on starched sheets,
in a place reached via
a bodysearch for health.
While bits of life spit
to computer screens,
heaven answers prayer
with snow, tissue thin,
showing black where
cars have been.
your head stops 
sheet becoming a shroud,
and time cleaving to
before and after.


Alone; unable to sleep;
I watch the sun burst behind the church,
and a black tapering steeple
appear to part the morning sky-
tonight's night present, correct,
and eager to add to my darkness.
Stark trees, bronchial branches nest clogged,
rattle and spit their spray of birds
at the dawn sore sky.
Phone wires flick from flatline,
as wind smacks and slaps the puddles
that slowly form petrol bruises.
Grass strains its tyre track stitches,
while my eye glides the church roof,
stops at the rifle sight cross,
trained on little left to kill......

The load was so heavy,
you needed help to carry the frame;
and how you struggled
when the metal pierced your hands.
While you flinched,
the sign above your head
told why you were there -
(c) 2003 Chris Major

Chris Major

Chris Major's work has appeared in many UK print magazines
He is 40, married with two children and lives in Staffordshire. Despite his  degree in Chemistry, he works with people who have mental health problems.

His fave bands are Velvet Underground,The Music,
Ocean Colour Scene. His fave poets are Philip Larkin and Sylvia Plath.