You let a slice of cucumber
settle, sit, full square on your tongue;
intuit with each receptor
the ring of hardness surrounding
its moist flesh. You can’t tell how long
it’s poised; or why you feel on-song.
Thursday, 31 May 2012
Saturday, 26 May 2012
The Crowstream
Pouring along in their thousands,
at many times the pace of the rush-hour traffic
tailing back from temporary lights,
the crows against the blush December sky
caw east above the Roman road
– the Via Trinobantes –
from the heath to the riverside,
like a streamer flailing from a wedding-car
in the slipstream of a single-decker bus.
at many times the pace of the rush-hour traffic
tailing back from temporary lights,
the crows against the blush December sky
caw east above the Roman road
– the Via Trinobantes –
from the heath to the riverside,
like a streamer flailing from a wedding-car
in the slipstream of a single-decker bus.
Friday, 4 May 2012
High Wire
I have a poem included in an online anthology of Poems from Art on the Tate Modern website.
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