Saturday, 7 December 2013


To be honest, this is probably an example of a 'source' poem in a very early draft: these rather disconnected, 'snapshot'-style pieces seem to emerge every now and then, destined to be dismantled and reconfigured at a later date, their individual parts becoming the starting point for other things. 

So here then let’s line them up.

Weather happens, through trees,
beyond this path's renovated balustrade
and bus station uncertainties.

It is beautiful.

At the cusp of this expanse,
everyone has some kind of idea.

The bay is a tumble of waves.

I’m waking up not far from Ovid.

The bars stay open.

Over there – and the missed boat – 
it is whoever I choose to overhear
will change how I see it.

“It’s windy,” he says, “perhaps.”

The clean church charges entry.

Footsteps along the beach
and at the great jagged point
we’re all here, in this, together.

Tom Phillips 2013

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