Philippa Lane Poems

Purple is afraid
it scuttles into corners
on all fours
it reeks
...

Blue floats and hovers
it never comes to rest
its scent is distant bonfires
its touch moth-breath
...

Yellow is the sun of childhood
the certain day
the fine silk strands
of youthful years
...

we rake them into pyramid pyres,
our satisfaction glowing like the flame
with which we light them.
...

'Does anyone know how to make
a bed without fitted sheets? ,
the princess asked,
as she wafted down
...

He staggered
from the bistro
and at a glance
he looked for all the world
...

I

I weep for you, though no tears fall,
I watch you,
...

once
I was dead wood in a forest
flowing with sap
...

The beginning of the end of our Canadian winter;
The ending of a British winter,
And their gentle spring ahead of ours.
I always think about these overlapping seasons,
...

At high tide,
as we drove along the seafront
on our family outing,
our car would be peppered with pebbles
...