Two Poems by Alex Jenkins

Christmas Alone, Place de la Cathédrale

In delirious iron, Alavoine
avenged fire, his flèche outlasting
lightning, war, and Reason.

Monet preserved first impressions
in scumbled oil and memory.
Plastered to an étal

in the Marché de Noël,
I found a tenacious leaf.
Spars splintered, vaulting

to apices: a cathedral
crumpled on my palm.
Look, mouse-bitten

windows, lamina torn –
presenting half-light smiles,
teeth bared in absent flesh.

The Lie of the Land, the Sea

Grounded to shore, the tender boat hulls swoon
to kiss pebbles birthed from the restless wash.

The horizon lies as we lie to our
children – by frantic omission. Its smoothed

curve a line of best fit, a merciful act.
 
Amid turbine stalks and tumbling blades, 
I watch the squat-snouted tankers vanish – 

laggard children disappearing
behind their parents’ trailing hands.

Alex Jenkins is a poet and civil servant who lives in London. He is currently working on his first pamphlet.