2 poems

by Eloïse Bennigsen

hanover street 

In a curve of the road near the station a tree

hangs its vines down a steep wall and breathes

in.  

The sun is beginning to set and light breaks 

through gaps in the vines, 

over the railway bridge and the river 

and the shape of the metro in the water as it

moves across the bridge,  

breathing out. 

The water quivers. The vines shift, 

and then the water and the vines and the metro become

completely still as the road curves round and down and

round again. 

the bridge  

We move over the bridge and the shape of the bridge is two

hands pressed together at the fingerprints 

making a promise, or a prayer. 

We move over the bridge and our hands, in promise and prayer, wave

goodbye. 

We hear your voice on the phone without subtitles. We see

the breeze move the vines on the trees 

and lift a tear from your face, 

and our hands, pressed in promise, in prayer,  

fold to form the tracks as we travel,  

as we move into dying sunlight  

that fills gaps in the air and the space in the stairwell, between

each strand of your hair, between our fingers, pressed in

promise or a prayer. 

Eloïse Bennigsen is a UK-based poet, currently studying MA Creative Writing at Newcastle University. Her work covers a variety different topics, ranging from faith to politics to language. In early 2021, she had her first publication in a local anthology. When she is not writing, she can be found learning Korean and trying new recipes.