by David Hanlon
We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.
—Anaïs Nin
I am yesterday’s light,
a shard of citrus
caught behind black curtains.
Dawn finds me
folded into pleats of shadow—
birdsong blurred
to a distant remembering,
the river forgetting
its silver breath.
Then a great spotted woodpecker,
red-crowned, insistent,
strikes the oak
until the tree remembers
the green pulse beneath its bark,
and I remember too.
Pink blossom loosens
from the branch
and follows the wind
toward me.
I write with each petal,
each small return of colour,
until memory meets morning.
David Hanlon is a poet based in Cardiff, Wales. He is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. His work has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, including Rust & Moth, Anthropocene, and trampset. His latest collection, Dawn's Incision, was published by IceFloe Press in 2024. You can follow him on X (@davidhanlon13) and Instagram (@hanlon6944).
January House Literary Journal 
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