Dick Jones- New Poetry


Where the ironstone wall
gathers fuscia and salt;
where the swifts stitch blue
air to the scrub-grass; where
herring gulls mob the heron;
where cormorants hang wings
on the wind to dry; where seals rise
gleaming on a flood tide; where
the rain drifts in a milk-haze;
where the sun is thin as a coin;
where the rainbow really ends.


We’re in a hospital lift going up
from ground floor to the seventh,
just the two of us, strangers and
I’m thinking (as you do) what if

the ca...


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