Tag Archives: George Freek


by George Freek

I know nothing of swallows,
And they know nothing of me.
But we’ve made a kind of pact
like that of leaf and tree.

I look for the moon, almost
hidden by clouds. Its splintered
light, falling on cold walls,
gives cold comfort on a cold night.

These are the long hours
before dawn breaks like ice,
before the wind tells its story
of the swallows and their flight.

And night is an imponderable.
It’s a dead leaf in my mind.
It’s a fragment of an unreal place,
existing in an unreal time.



by George Freek

The atmosphere says we’re in
for unpleasant weather.
Things of the dark crawl
from their holes. A dead leaf
blows in the wind
like a petal torn from a rose.
The moon is smothered
by the night, but the moon
means nothing to me.
I hear a distant raven,
heard but unseen, hidden
in the branches of an unseen tree.
And as stars drift by,
I wonder what that raven sees
when he looks at the stars,

when he looks at me.