one last poem

Words fall like autumn leaves. A low dying storm, pressured harbinger of winter, irrevocably sucks them from my lips. Golden on my tongue, they tumble in many evanescent colours. Flutters of purple prose scarcely tinge the air as they drop. Zestful orange phrases, deprived of sunlight, wilt untouched. Yellowed poems drift with the breeze like … Continue reading one last poem

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redwing on Rymers Lane

And more snow comes, smothering land and city, upon snowdrops and rooftops, berries and frozen earth, bringing a lone redwing no bigger than my woollen hands to be grounded beneath a fruitless hedge by a lifeless white allotment on Rymers Lane, East Oxford. He stands there so small, his wings clasped tight to the sides … Continue reading redwing on Rymers Lane

build

I'd love to build you a pyramid or minaret up to the sky. I'd put the Taj Mahal in shadow and the Kremlin walls would shake. Let Liberty light her candle and Sydney's Opera House sing. I'm going to pitch my tent on an honest Scottish cliff-top and face the storms of a northern sea.