Three Poems by Dominic Hale

Saint Blane’s Church


Like a flat sea,

Here is where we are, the empty reaches

Empty of ourselves

George Oppen


A day like breakfast,

a stepped-on sphagnum

day. A nettle light.

No pilgrims, perma


frost, or I’m in

the cycling active 

layer, re-thaw, & we all

aching, receipt in the

head. Ochre scrape. 


Under the soles, deep 

extract world not 

over ours, raked time. 

Sheep, fern & moon


wort. This, responsibly precise –

sea spleenwort in

clear fractures, the 

temperature swing:

depression, being


difficult today. Pink 

tinge from Dunagoil

& over to sheer 

Arran. Bog errata fix 


the walking boot. Or 

is it pointing-arm Kintyre, 

the sleeping altocumulus,

& knowledge. Seal-heads

in the bay. Complete,


sphere of life, the

heart’s jetlag leaving

the city & the cut

desire for history:

depth of every

body passing by

me, the allergic street –

I just like their gentle 

& divided

struggle & the sky,


sclera. Returning, 

on the gist of standing 

stones. The cloud


is reassembled 

now. I love you, & 

it’s been a year.

A little walking,

round the earth.



A Psalm at Night


for John Wieners 


Night of the data

mine,     unsleep

the overload, of

a noticeable

screen, stay

along     me. Face 

is spare, gainful

hours drink 

interest, clicked  

     & sweep, the late

alerts of transnational 

birds     detonating. Ache 


total, be. Some longing 

& the stutter, erased

     stitch of the runway, 

search     text, of

me, financial

& anxious. 


I am     going, I know


There is 

water on the table,


& upwards in the quiet sink,

& host     stars, in their system.



A Nuthatch


Blue against the bough,

     little June 

figment, whistle, lend

a garden

sound. No, I


will cut

the sanity


stars, & from

the further hills

     of debt, &




Dominic Hale (b. 1993) grew up in Blackpool and now lives in Edinburgh. 



Image credit: Dominic Hale

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