• March 15th, 2019
  • Posted in Poetry


It took some hours to summon up

The will to visit my painful bluebell wood:


Piercing blue of deep intensity

In liquid sun and waves of searing mauve

Where sharper light silvers slender trunks

Of beech and fir.


There is a poignant stillness here

Amongst the bending heads and waxen leaves,

For here I read your final message:

Non negotiable.


I settle on a log to read a book 

Of real pain to scale my sadness down,

But it is hard to close our meagre volume

Scarce started.


I should have put my love to bed by now,

Moved on amongst the whispering bluebell seas,

But you and they are neuron-fused in

Annual emptiness.


I cycle home to find at least

The house is spick and span 

With my procrastination.


Howe Wood, Saffron Walden  April 2017

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