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Peter Jones Poems
There’s low scudding clouds on the sea today and the rain lashes hard in my face the boarded-up cafes have nothing to say and I am alone in this place.
On Being 60
Shaken by jackdaws, in their fluttering castles, To steal whistling arrows from forgotten fields, I hear the blackthorn twistily move amendments to old postcards of tilted-at windmills;
Time For Our Time
Come give me your tomorrow And I shall give you mine And all our thens and never-were’s Will celebrate a time.
The steel flashes bright as my pickaxe draws circles in air and plunges moist; deep from light into the softer Wealden clay
Mis Suete Leofe (written in early Engli...
I betacht mis suete leof somme dayes-eyes for a kisse and to the song of the munde woderove she betacht me one; sicht blis.
Yes; so it was, an answer: yes: even by the orange groves, trampled by irritable skies
The Dunster Lark
Rise up unfolding, born of clay; come yet tumbling from the gale. You are not dead; your eye is clear, so sing your weeping madrigal
Call down now to the brown marbled witness; unseen in the frolicking muddletown that bubbles clear in the dayfall;
The Power Of Flight
To dream of flying, across the rooftops and out over the coal black sea. To shed the weight that holds me down I flex my untroubled muscles
All bright this day in Clarbeston and soft the railway station dreams in birdsong roared, while midges dance. It seems the daffodils hear nothing
To Rex Whistler
And we caught sight of flooded fields across our unexplaining lives, dazzled by a brief bright light; not knowing what we saw
I, from my Northing came
I, from my Northing came: precessing with my outriders of the first dews, until I rested in your dreams and seeped into their warm stones.
This hot summer night is stifling me in this prison of North Pimlico. From a forth floor flat there is little to see as I stare at the street down below.
From A Train
Green and green; and evergreen in my all, and scurrying in flickered films of glimpses, painted green...
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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There’s low scudding clouds on the sea today
and the rain lashes hard in my face
the boarded-up cafes have nothing to say
and I am alone in this place.
The driftwood and netting are blown everywhere
but no show at the end of the pier.
No-one will see and no-one will care
that the Dodgems have no-one to steer.
Seasonal gales tear at faded brave flags:
the promenade windblown and bleak.
Confetti is made up of ripped plastic bags
and the bus shelter’s starting to leak.
Where is the magic of so long ago,
to the child that once splashed in the ...