The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
Sunday, 3 March 2013
Three Short Poems.
Rubbish for recycling:
I take it to the bin,
a wicker basket just the job --
until a neighbour greets me:
Morning, Red Riding Hood!
Ah, I say, but Granny,
What big eyes you've got!
A queue forms at the inn.
On the river, dark
and thick as treacle
where the houseboats rock,
a mist has formed.
Across the bridge
an Asian woman and her children
walk towards me, singing.
Smiles form on their faces.
The street light on the square goes out,
the floodlit football has to stop.
The boys mooch off, debating loudly:
A replay versus the score stands.
Hobgoblin 2011 at dVerse Poets has set us the task of writing short verse.