Wednesday, 24 October 2012


Sixteen at that curious stage, age
of neither one thing or another
shelter under a single umbrella
like curious colours coagulating
in a cocktail tumbler
in their fresh clothing
before converging
in the great hall
where candles are burning
amongst flowers
and green odours
of grave water.


  1. A beautiful and shapely poem that creates a rich and bright carpet of sound and image which is then -- ah time! -- pulled out from under the reader, who is left holding a different sort of thing altogether.

    Something fished out of a pond or tarn, perhaps, in the sombre light of late autumn.

    How swiftly the years went by...

  2. Thanks for your poetic comment Tom. 'Tarn' is such a beautiful word, thank you.



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