Poetry by Mark Richardson: “In the Cool of the Night”
In the cool of the night underneath the lamplight in a little wilderness of stray grassland beside the railway line I sense what is left…
In the cool of the night underneath the lamplight in a little wilderness of stray grassland beside the railway line I sense what is left…
I find that every now and then I am refresh’d by Marine Le Pen Once or twice, she cuts it fine Too much “1789″…
I remember when I saw what my fathers saw. These unmade roads paddocks eaten bare the box trees rising, triumphantly, from nowhere. I remember when…
Enoch who? Enoch Powell? Why do you howl? Why do you scowl? I see the flood Smell Virgil’s blood Thames dry mud Execration! Ululation!…
I know that you can wear a smiling face, that is no true measure of your inner grace. Men meeting men take care not to…
Yes we can, yes we can We can what – I hear no plan? I am but a simple man I might feel pain…
Evening trees, arching to the setting sky pulsing upward, palms raised high leaves shimmering in metallic glare one last shout, one trumpet blare sounding out…
On the ice-edge of the hill Gazing down grateful from verge of valley, Coming in across country, a splinter of winter – My feet hold…
On watch – In a long slow timeless wash Reflux of freighted waters Slim frigates ride – Grey grace the warping waves bestride And fall…
Tongue-in-cheek, the writers speak of what thing might befall them A serious joke, the tone is weak As if it might forestall them; Such is…