Weekend Poetry: Two Poems
The city’s last horologist times the heavy swing
of his made-up shoe, perfectly. We are early
and the streets are ours
no ticking heels, no cars …
Between our talk a crane’s sundial, precisely.
He must not stop working, our keeper of the hours.
Red Phone Box, Powys
Dripping candle on the verge,
a villager’s St Paul’s.
Who will clear the grime
and briars from its dome,
the whispers from its walls?
Behind the clouded panes
the dead relight their cigarettes,
a dazed aunt informs the police
Hess has landed, mumbling Puw’s
sermon makes us wait,
a teenager on hold engraves her love …
outrang the pub, the school.
Frayed wick of a mouthpiece,
its glow lit our dreams,
confessions the morning absolves.
Burn on, old flame, sheltering now,
at 4am, the paper van’s bale.
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