A whirr of plane
disturbs a summer night,
its pathway shadowing across
snazzy granite-topped kitchens,
streets bristling with white paint,
trim-paced black shiny railings.
Where is the poem about rendition?
Closed-door meetings,
masked movements above us,
hundreds quietly removed.
They fly above our expensive roofs
past the expanse of evening
that supports no regime
stalking the streets of London below.
We have the solace of pure cotton sheets
but even as we touch
the night is fucked.
This poem is taken from the new collection "Citizeness", Motet Press c/o patjourdan@eircom.net
Pat Jourdan was born in the centre of Liverpool, where she studied painting at the College of Art. Exhibitions of paintings and readings of poetry have been held in London, Norwich, Dublin and Galway. Winner of several poetry and short story awards in Ireland and England. She keeps on painting while finishing the next novel, (after “Finding Out”) with two collections of short stories and two poetry collections already published.
Websites : http://www.patjourdan.co.uk/ and http://www.patjourdan.net/
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