Dennis Moriarty: I am 54 years old and live in South Wales UK. I am married with five children and six grandchildren. I run a contract cleaning company with my wife. I love to read, write poetry, walk in the hills of Wales and delight in the Welsh language.
A crack shot of wings in the valley
The buzzard’s solo flight into winter.
Ice settling old scores
And the riffle wind’s recoil is cushioned
By snow flakes on black ice, danger well concealed.
Two eyes cut from a sheet of polished steel
Each one calculating the dimensions of a cloud
And a sudden sharp intake of air,
A split atom of frost blistering the throat’s
Holds the moment,lungs heaving under
Let’s go, exhaling a vaporous breath of silhouettes,
A jet plane heading for warmer climes,
Dragging it’s entrails across hectares of
Freeze dried sky
I will dream you one more winter.
To replenish your tired eyes
To soften the corners of your voice.
I will reenact
Old memories purely for your
And I imagine your laughter will shatter
It must be of winter that I dream for
I know how you loved
Those long dark nights in front of
The ritual burning of logs and the flames writhing
In an ecstasy of passion.
I will dream you a hearth and logs to burn
A chair to sit in
A song to swallow and a pipe to smoke.
I will dream you alive again.
This room has aged me in warm ash
And scented candles.
A shrine to popped pills and too many
Bottles of wine
To lost days and undiscovered nights.
Listening to the rain I am an effigy of
All I have ever been,
But that clock, oh that clock with its
And sinister hand shakes, has always begrudged
Me my limited time.
Yet this room is a comfort, an old friend who
Has kept me safe
From insurgent forces and the damnation
Still this room continues to age me in worn leather and
Leaving me silent and philosophical as a cat
Minus eight lives and counting.