gerard rochford
gerard rochford Poems
Night Shift
You’re sleeping with your back to me tonight.
I reach around. Still sleeping you say: Later.
...
I like to wear a band around my wrist,
an amulet of copper, links of bling,
a hippy weave of cotton or dried grass.
...
I know the scene – an aunt,
the mix of perfume and talc,
demanding a kiss
on her rouged target of cheek.
...
When you’re alone with that sweet wood,
the strings silent, bow taut, the heart hesitant;
go into the Forest of Birse and listen.
Moonlight is best; you know the music of days.
...
I knew but never heard you say the word,
although you may have whispered it in the night.
So was it the day you looked up from your digging
...
gerard rochford Biography
He was born in England, raised in Worcestershire, lived in Hong Kong, but has spent most of his life in Scotland: '...where the best footballers leave and the best poets stay. It is good to be near them'. He has many children and grandchildren. He writes mostly about intimate human relationships, wildlife and occasionally politics. 'Perhaps they are all one.' His poem 'My Father's Hand' was selected by Janice Galloway as one of the 20 best scottish poems of 2006 on behalf of the Scottish Poetry Library. He is the Makar (Laureate) for: www.scottishreview.net -publishing one poem per month.)
The Best Poem Of gerard rochford
Night Shift
Night Shift
You’re sleeping with your back to me tonight.
I reach around. Still sleeping you say: Later.
Down at the lily pond the amorous frogs
are singing through the darkness for a mate.
I doze till morning when the voyeur sun
nudges your promise as you turn to me.
A deer moves passed our window; cherry blossom
decorates her mouth moistened by dew.
When we make love the deer tip-toes away.
We disengage. I leave to make you coffee.
The birds and the bees are busy finding food
their music gentle; in bed we watch the news.
A suicide bomber kills himself in error:
the president kills, again and again, to plan.
Britney enters re-hab once again.
The poppies flourish in Afghanistan.
A boy steps on a mine when fetching water.
His blood and bone colour the desert soil.
A Nigerian girl is stoned to death for love;
her villagers starve as rich men steal their oil.
My love and I are warm beneath the quilt;
with fair trade coffee to assuage our guilt.
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4/20/2024 6:06:29 AM # 1.0.0.1119
