Christopher Hopkins grew up on a council estate in Neath, South Wales during the1970s. This fractured landscape of machines and mountains and the underlying ‘Hiraeth’ in welsh life has developed his unique voice. He currently resides in Canterbury and works for NHS cancer services. Christopher has had poems published in Backlash Press, The Journal (formally the Contemporary Anglo – Scandinavian poetry), Rust & Moth, The Journal, Harbinger Asylum, Scarlet Leaf Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, VerseWrights, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice magazine, Poetry Superhighway, Duane’s PoeTree, Outlaw Poetry and the online literary journal 1947. Christopher’s spoken word poetry has also featured in a podcast of Golden Walkmen Magazine. Two of his early e-book pamphlets “Imagination Is My Gun” and “Exit From A Moving Car” are available on Amazon.
Daydreaming in sleep
Coal dust settles on the evening.
On the little town,
and it’s joins between others.
The back roads and backyards quieten,
less the calling for a dog
that will never comes.
And the night grows with the night sounds.
The tyre drum on sand paper streets.
The hum of a white moths drive
under scaffolding lights.
The volume of a moment,
filling the space in its passing.
Then the quietness of nothings.
There’s a stubbornness of sunlight in the stars.
Running a million miles,
leaving so many years ago,
to be here, witnessing tonight,
as moons start flaming in window frames,
the blue tint on concrete paths.
We think nothing of it,
their journeys burning
like a million TV boxes bright.
To small to see.
And the night grows from
The tides of street lights and roof line blue,
are as the darkness under a breaking wave,
to the moon lit top
of the cresting fall.
Then the night swallows this town whole.
This little town,
Sleeping in the shadows of chandeliers.
In the ozone perfume of sprinklers,
after the crack and shudder.
into slumber after prays,
of asking well of the dead.
News report of trawlerman lost
It is a welcome sight,
only known to them,
hooker and line.
The lights of the pub
and the quay side chapel
shine out to the dark,
where the salt grey reaches.
Those horizon sat stars,
guiding the hearts back home,
to the hillside fortresses of family arms.
that home-come relief,
is cold at the sight of these pricks of light.
As the kindred gather at the shoreline breaking,
their silence drowns the pitching surf,
as they look to the offing like drift wood rooted,
in hope to answer the harrowed asking,
whose prayer have been forsaken?
The answer comes on a cert of bobs,
on the steamily slow course bow.
The engine sounds clacking loud,
as the hooves of a pale horse messenger.
‘Come quickly home, come safely so’,
were the singing graces for the leaving crew.
Now whispering pleas in grasped amens,
‘Lord, don’t leave my love forsaken’.
Then the halt of beat upon the mark,
brunt knuckle white around the heart,
as the name is said,
so softly so.
Sorrow for the loss and a good man too.
And waves roll on that hallowed soul,
the wash of grief through the cockle shell floor.
The spindrift tears touch the lips,
and the taste is a man’s last breath.
Through the calling hours of curtains closed,
the wake beers bought in lieu of flowers,
their prayer hands still clasped together,
and they’re told,
with hand on heart,
‘The voice of the Lord is upon the waters’.
Guilt in relief the end for others.
A sea of ancient deity.
The forever evolving things.
Our sky of burning dust.
We named them as gods
and from their place we found our way,
while the whitening eye of a moon
touches its numb light on all the living,
and how some buds flower by the moon,
while the others wait for the wash of morn
to let their colours come.
How Nyx has been forgotten,
and the stars are renamed as other things.
The forever evolving things.
Our flash of life,
this very moment,
hurtled into space,
at speed and light years away.
maybe, we will catch them up.
Running faster than light can take,
and walk amongst our days again.
To look upon ourselves,
by the light of stars and moon.
Wonder how we found our way.
How we didn’t even know their names.
Take your journeys home
Bolt fire skies
at shutter speed.
The thunder roll turns away,
and I can’t tell,
if the tumbling blare’s heaven,
or the infrasound of the jewel line,
A slowing S.O.S.
of rain from the gutter spill,
as the storm takes its journey home.
Death of a summer flower
across the lawn.
How the handfast blossom
flits from lichgate to porch.
Gone the wild night
between yesterday’s summer
and this sober morn.
Songbird and bough still dazed
from elbow and fist
of untimely skies,
of the rough grey hands of god.