long one o’clock on the garden furniture
the party lights glittered in dimness.
you wore old brown leather
smelling of cider
but your breath reeked of whisky. Continue reading
The rough balsam of summer heat,
Shot through with grit,
Leaves slick and sweaty all it touches.
A warm, greasy clamminess
That speaks of stagnant ponds Continue reading
Dark Noon at Gwithian
rocks sit black and hunched
their faces turned
to an unruly sea,
creased as if blinking with disappointed eyes. Continue reading
The Window Seat
Next to the side door,
Which leads into the garden
—a grand word for a narrow track
beaten through the grass and cow parsley—
There is a window.
It is wide, deep,
Wrought with Georgian proportions. Continue reading
The rain has come
The rain has come.
Strange that something
Should strike the ground
With such force. Continue reading
In the small hours of a neon-lit night,
The hotel seems never more distant.
It’s even possible
That I’ve misplaced
Covent Garden again. Continue reading