Everyone will come to their front door
Long dark silence above me
The night of mothers
We should have built our houses higher
Did they speak or sing?
I have lost my tongue
One day when the sun was wicked and the fields stank
Snug as a policeman’s gun
And then my parent’s went, down a gravelled drive
Experts and other liars
In Gillian Clarke’s Porch
An old ewe not worth saving, a barn to pull down
From Bettws I could see her
Monday’s Drowning
Chairs are rising into the sky
They have come for me in a big car with dark windows
My father, reaching out
All things must close, and it wash over
Spinster
The thing about geometry
On the other pillow
I have been removed from books
No comments:
Post a Comment