before you wake

we tighten the knots of weed and twine, then brush the ground
for a sleeping place

through a roof of fern we eye fragments of night, where the rain
will tap our faces

at new light I raise a hand for the last star, but it slips through my fingers
into the milk of day

I stir the doused fire, a black ulcer now
where it hurt the land

turn to lift your cup, its rim lined with chocolate,
humour and dew.

Philip Berry’s poems have appeared on Lucent Dreaming, Picaroon Poetry, Lunate Fiction, Re-side, The Healing Muse and Easy Street. He lives in London and works as a doctor. His website: His Twitter: @philaberry.

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