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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;
Spirit of the Eagle
Once circling poised to stoop somewhere between the top of the mountain and the bottom of the sky. Were there dreams enough to share for free
From A Train
Green and green; and evergreen in my all, and scurrying in flickered films of glimpses, painted green...
“Rasterick R made a brisk 35” on a damp shard of paper, found in a drawer - with the date on the top
Such A Big Moon
Such a big moon it was that ran all down Pier Street, into the Park. At the gate, the unknown stone soldier stares sightless.
In Search Of England
I went in search of England and found it there, in some slight lane where, dressed in light, cobwebs hung from silences:
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
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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 ...