STAR POems: Quixotic Revelations

By Dale M Chatwin

The cold chills my bones
like hypodermic needles scratching stone.
I rose from the gutter,
thoughts fractured and cluttered,
made my way back home,

The streets were deserted,
the wind howled.
The sound was a choir of souls,
lamenting their former selves,
anguished they roam,
through purgatory, their home.

Now it is done.
The humming has ceased.
I asked the wind: ‘why?’
The answer whistled through trees,
across the ocean, in my dreams.
‘It is your time,’
I heard it say.
A circle formed.
I fell into ancient territory,
followed the rocks
along a misty peak,
fighting the wind, failing, dissolving.


If you would like to be next month’s STAR POet, get in touch with our award-winning Poetry Editor, Maggie Sawkins.