Danny Sorby is twenty years old and originally from Hartlepool. He is currently in his third year studying English at Sunderland University and cites Polly Clark, Sylvia Plath and Philip Larkin as his influences.
His poetry is sparse but delicate, honing in on the incidental comfort and beauty in the inanimate sights that exist on the periphery of our vision. I cannot wait to read more from him in future.
Flashlights
The best time of day is night.
Bulbs flicker atop looming poles
dousing the streets in gold,
the black roads: deep rivers,
impenetrable.
The sky a blend
of blue, black and dots
fixed in their stations
like men on sentry,
flashlights
promising something, like safety.
Breakwater
With pockets full of shells,
pockets full of stones,
I lean on the black barrier
of the breakwater
looking at the sea part in two greys,
each growing lighter toward the shore;
froth from colliding waves
looks like dust caught in light.
As it splashes around my feet
I hear thunder
rebounding off moss, stone and bone, and
the moon, like a great white
pearl,
drops behind a cloud.