Peter Jones

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.
...

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;
...

Come give me your tomorrow
And I shall give you mine
And all our thens and never-were’s
Will celebrate a time.
...

From Montmartre to the Gare Du Nord,
the Faubourg St Denis drops down
through warrened streets of nothingness;
anonymous. At times: winter greyed and traffic roared;
...

In all, in all, in coming then;
you come in grace
to walk down one fine morning.
And I shall gentle you in all,
...

You were holding history then:
long and so long ago:
the un-faced shops that nobody minded
holding to life merely by habit.
...

Do not call my name, nor grieve.
Neither fear some false deceiving pain
Borne aloft by memories.
But weave a leitmotif
...

Un-colour the sound of the darkened sea;
to leave it outlined in white.
Let the fire-blackened globe
continue to probe
...

It was well enough done in Cobbledock Lane:
Breathing the grey waked morning.
And the barrels, kicked from the dray
spoke rebellion:
...

The Guardians of the Gate are there
And will not let me through.
Their swords ring thunder in the night
And draw a blind across my sight.
...

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
...

It was, in truth, a sort of tune
which sang a chattered dynasty
and gossiped through the evening hearts,
with scraping chairs around the room;
...

The sun pours in across the room
And lights us warm in our embrace.
A fond caress in afternoon
As we share this secret place.
...

They are fighting a war with their guns again:
the boys on the village green;
joyfully trying to kill and maim
in the myth of their lost timeless scene.
...

Do the dragons come into your night, Marie-Clare,
And roar out your name when you sleep?
I can see from the pain that’s burnt in your stare,
You have terrible secrets to keep.
...

I went in search of England
and found it there, in some slight lane
where, dressed in light,
cobwebs hung from silences:
...

Such a big moon it was
that ran all down Pier Street, into the Park.
At the gate, the unknown stone soldier
stares sightless.
...

“Rasterick R made a brisk 35”
on a damp shard of paper,
found in a drawer -
with the date on the top
...

Green and green; and evergreen
in my all, and scurrying
in flickered films
of glimpses, painted green...
...

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.
...