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.