Graham Eccles Poems

There’s no such thing as a lonely cloud

Wandering round here
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king of piel, lord of ale

hear the cryer wail
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His mind filled with his fathers’ stories of monsters in the wood

The wilful child started out to see if these tales were good
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a poet can write about a pebble and make a page of it
he'll tell you all about the texture, and any lumps or bits
he'll tell you how it feels to touch, and smell and see and taste
but by writing much about a pebble, an hour of time he wastes
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For too long now have we been oppressed

Our ancient languages suppressed
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Up the steeply sloped road, i tip tippy toed my way away over the hill

then i spied i a view, so i stood stiffly still 'til i'd greedily had my fill
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people keep thinking, for this is all that you've got,

not the treasures you surround yourselves with
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I want to hit you with my word-stick

It’s for your own good you know.
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You would have been my sunshine

For you I would have died
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Why should I move?

What have I got to prove?
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