Cold Frequencies | Martin Fisher
Cold Frequencies | Martin Fisher I am broke and I cannot see the wind. I can feel it knocking my bones to wood, aged by rings. You want to talk to me? Use a radio telescope. I’m tuned to the cold frequencies where the Atlantic dragon sleeps. Send music, not words. A choir of flowers flows down the Orinoco, petals brushed with saffron motes in a garland for Ophelia, drifting toward the sea’s join. Somewhere in the world’s kitchen, someone boils madness, horseradish and orange soup— food for dragons in the wind. I wait for the waves to reach me and watch the crabs and hunters disappearing in time, those fading suns. A silence in my rest. Martin Fisher's poems have appeared in Hare's Paw Literary Journal, Ink Sweat & Tears, JMWW, ANTAE, The Astorian, and the anthology Unstable Realities, among others. His working life carried him across Africa and Europe before he settled in Sussex, where he works, semi‑retired, as a gardener. He writes for enjoyment, not ambition.
