Looking on the truth.
On the very top of this mountain,
as the thin air fixes on my skin,
I see a shadow sweep across the hills
even while the sun shines steadily.
A slight darkening of colour as if
something touches each blade of grass
and changes it.
And, out there on the horizon,
a large wheel is thrust up into the sky.
The birds circle round it,
landing and rising as it turns with their weight
and the weight of something else,
that brings them, circling.
And something is flying towards me.
Some malevolence, flying straight, below the radar.
Jim Conwell lives and works in London. With an original background in Fine Art, he has worked for nearly 30 years in the mental health field. He has had poems published in The Journal, The Lampeter Review, Poetry Cornwall, South Poetry, Orbis, Ofi Press, The English Chicago Review, The SHOp, Uneven Floor, Turbulence, The Seventh Quarry, Under the Radar, The Frogmore Papers and Blue Pepper, and has a poem scheduled for publication in Poetry and Audience.
Jims poems can be found in Elbow Room Volume 8