Sometimes it’s a battery
or a newly discovered stem cell. A vaccine
in early trials. The half-second
of still before the referee’s whistle.
Or it’s an explosion,
a chemical trigger that pushes molecules
from here to there. A release
of pure energy
in a too-small space.
Other times it’s the short dash
after that first date
of a famous someone’s name,
sitting like a hanging knife,
an arrow mid-flight,
loosed at its target from long range,
to burrow through reputation,
a full stop, an end of,
a life getting its real punctuation.
Niall Firth is a journalist at New Scientist and recently took Dai George’s Online Feedback Course at the Poetry School.