Heartbeat - by Stephen Seabridge



Going up the hill the heart

is a song of detonation, 


a pulse and judder

as I suck in cold air 


and trick my lungs

into believing they are not burning. 


It must burst someday,

splinter open like a clam. 


I'm sure that when I'm pounding

pavement, watching a white cottage


as I pass it by, catching the glimpse of a fox

scamper away from the noise of my soles, 


it will burst in colour and energy

like the firework streaming light. 


This heart and its atria

with its filigree of butterfly wings, 


its veins a constellation of blood,

a collage of transit cells 


as it stretches and shrinks, on repeat,

like a clock ticking in the dark.