Two poems by Peter Clive


I have always loved this sound
since before I can remember:
the rain on the window,
the skylight, the roof, outside.
I force myself into the edge
where the bed meets the wall,
make myself as small as possible,
make myself vanish into the sound,
lose myself in its amniotic embrace.


The latch

Son, I remember
when you locked yourself
in the bathroom
when you were two.
I described through the door
how to use the latch
so you could let yourself out.
I wish I knew how
to get you to open up
that place you are in now
that locks from the inside,
in case, instead of a latch,
you find another way out
that doesn’t bring you back
into my arms.

Peter Clive lives on the southside of Glasgow, Scotland with his wife and three children. He is a scientist working in the renewable energy sector. As well as poetry, he enjoys composing music for piano and spending time in the Isle of Lewis.

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