#EnglishWriters
Rain patters on a sea that tilts a… Fast-running floors, collapsing in… Tower suddenly, spray-haired. Con… A wave drops like a wall: another… Wilting and scrambling, tirelessly…
If hands could free you, heart, Where would you fly? Far, beyond every part Of earth this running sky Makes desolate? Would you cross
My readers... sometimes I wonder whether they really exist. Truly they arer remarkably tolerant, manifesting themselves only by the occasional query as to where they can buy records: ju...
How distant, the departure of youn… Down valleys, or watching The green shore past the salt—whit… Rising and falling. Cattlemen, or carpenters, or keen
Come To Sunny Prestatyn Laughed the girl on the poster, Kneeling up on the sand In tautened white satin. Behind her, a hunk of coast, a
I have started to say “A quarter of a century” Or “thirty years back” About my own life. It makes me breathless
The cloakroom pegs are empty now, And locked the classroom door, The hollow desks are lined with du… And slow across the floor A sunbeam creeps between the chair…
The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief… Is it that they are born again
My age fallen away like white swad… Floats in the middle distance, bec… An inhabited cloud. I bend closer… A lighted tenement scuttling with… O you tall game I tired myself wi…
If I were called in To construct a religion I should make use of water. Going to church Would entail a fording
Higher than the handsomest hotel The lucent comb shows up for miles… All round it close—ribbed streets… Like a great sigh out of the last… The porters are scruffy; what keep…
About twenty years ago Two girls came in where I worked— A bosomy English rose And her friend in specs I could t… Faces in those days sparked
They say eyes clear with age, As dew clarifies air To sharpen evenings, As if time put an edge Round the last shape of things
My mother, who hates thunder storm… Holds up each summer day and shake… It out suspiciously, lest swarms Of grape—dark clouds are lurking t… But when the August weather break…
They fuck you up, your mum and dad… They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they… And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their t…