Jordan Hunt – Two Poems


Burnt hair tips.
Crow’s feet etched on the face
Footprints in the snow.
Ruby lips flaked purple.
Old, brown paper hands, strangling
door handles.
Soft floral dresses drape around the
A contortion of branches.
Eyes ripened with age. Bruised
honey dews.
The memories are summer.
Sun kissed promises of dancing and smiling and girls.
The body is autumn,
Moss climbing aching arches waiting to collapse. Waiting for


No place like home

He didn’t know this place.
The cobbles felt misaligned under the tread of his shoe.
The scent of the air did not cling the salt of the sea.
He didn’t know this place.
The narrowed roads strangled cars and bicycles and people.
The local poison pumped through taps felt bitter on his palate.
He didn’t know this place.
The foreign shapes of street signs mocked him.
The burst of colour from the local wildflower felt alien to his eyes.
He didn’t know this place.
The unfamiliar drawl of the local’s accent
The peculiar inflection rising in anger or confusion or amusement.
At night he didn’t know this place.
The sickly glow of the yellow moon intruding through his curtains.
The cough of a stranger bouncing across his empty walls.
Then it came.
The brilliant lights punching excitement through the twilight.
The sweet smell of candyfloss and sugar dummies and toffee apples.
Then it came.
Knocking down cans and shooting cards for teddy bears.
Seeing the whole town glow atop a big wheel
Then it came.
Climbing fun houses and hiding on ghost trains.
Smiling at passers by rushing for food and fun and happiness.
He knew this place.



Jordan Hunt is a teacher currently living in North London. He draws inspiration from people watching, social justice and all other muses that pass through his mind.

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