The Wake

The white ship slides serene, wind-blown,

heedless of its human burthen

while laying wakes but swiftly flown.

Mile-on-mile the dance of heathen

sunbursts play on flashing waters

pretty as maids, or bonds that weaken

as the leaving fades. The snows that fought us

in winters past, tall drifts in proud array,

melt clear in spring before our youngest daugh...

Read and leave comments (0)

This is my vision of a certain cast of English village (not so much in springtime).

Winter Town

March winds stir listless eddies,

fluke in tired gusts over thin pools,

flare through fields of stubble

then flag, exhausted, sour and wheezing

from the blowing day;

coughing, rubbing arthritic fingers,

cold as a church bell sounds the hours.

Spring will be late this...

Read and leave comments (0)