
Poetry


Underneath
Who knows where who is buried? What names should have their stones turned To lean against the wind, Their chiselled marks preserved? ‘Underneath
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All in a Moment
I remember a mob of curlews, Every bird from the estuary, Gathered to hear the gale’s word And wrench the worm from Tresemple
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A Ballad of the Fallen
You never know when you stop On a corner to enquire the health Of a cousin and his own, if he Loiters occasionally,
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Langarth! O! Langarth!
Silence erects thick walls of inertia About the ground of dilemma, To bound and contain, to drain Resolution from willing ponds –
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A man stands on Old Bridge looking east
Stand here by the Sunday School, Beside the Scholars’ House, Where rubber plant and yellow hammer And pigeon speak in tongues. The river
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