The Sniper Behind the burnt trees the ochre dawn was planning its strategy for the day. All armies were massing; it would be a good day for a battle I thought as I filled my musket. My first cloudy shot killed a passing sniper who like me had awoken an hour earlier. Unlike me he […]

Do not brush the pollen from your skirts Lilly Franks You dance with violence in my orchard a branch rips your blouse and your breast is exposed the bees feed on your nectar You name one of these bees Vivid Princess and tell her stories of a Bee-Wolf Who lives in a dovecote and powders […]

My proud stone was reading Malherbe Et La Poesie Francaise whilst sitting next to Constance Wilde    

Hidden in the watermarks of your letter you write of your carriage full of butterflies of many colours I think of your delicate education as I cross these fields of iron    

From where I stand I can see the decaying angel Strong in the sea Under the sheltering cliff My Johnny lies fallow In her milk-chalk reflection All paths lead to her beacon I sound the clouds And they reply With their normal gun-gash ferocity These are my thoughts of renewal    

The truth is,  said Lois Is that I do not really like milk Especially from that jug   At a nearby railway station her father was opening the white picket gate and was receiving the congratulation of his sister who was meeting him from the train. I should like to visit Portugal and the countries […]

17th of the Month When viewed from a train You seem much smaller Or am I becoming more distant?   18th of the Month As the early clouds evaporate I see you naked In your chilled bed   21st of the Month During the short hours You remain hidden But I have seen you In […]

The Boar Hunt A hermit named Ellis Placed a fiery cross In front of his hut To detain the hunt   He looked silently At the hunters Who bade him farewell   On the Eve of Christmas   Fair Anne Riddell is detained This night with child As tradition notes She must spend The Lords […]

Oh men of discipline Defend thee thy city walls From all invaders And let the widows Of the past Look upon the likenesses Of their sons     A short poem by a George Dymock (1810-1846) found amongst his papers

The new moon Hung low over the stubble fields But was not not(ed)iced By the busy mice As they prepared for the(ir) Pilgrimage(s)