The Miracle of Mould

It sweats a palette of purple stars 

to birthmark new-born skies:


each bruise is a pinprick miracle 

whose galaxies of dead weight 

are spinning dreams from dust – 


hooked on air like an addict 

or artist – the house is sucked 

to a shadow of its former self. 


                   Masterpiece or mould, 

it’s difficult to tell until the brick 

turns bad like any love bite does.

Copyright: unpublished poem, © Jade Cuttle 2019, used by permission of the author

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Jade Cuttle graduated from Cambridge University with First-Class Honours in Modern and Medieval Languages and Literature, and is now ...

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