Tuesday, 27 March 2012

Another part of At Home

The garden reeks of a season’s neglect,
the sweet, dank mould of cherry leaves,
parsimonious winter. Failing to make
amends; pigeons coo arguments
from an outhouse roof.

You ham it up by calling it regret.
The moon’s blur lights an island of cloud.
Nothing’s out of place but your self –
or that’s what you’re thinking
(if that’s your voice you hear speaking),
but it’s doing you no good.

Originally published by Various Artists; copyright Tom Phillips 2012

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