Time
When most of the casual goodnights have been spoken
poetry
The Web and the Vine
Here sitting beside myself, ignoring
A Poem
When thoughts are springs tight-wound in space
A Last Resort
Here where tides untiring pluck a fretted shore
The Bridges
How clumsy are the messages we shout
An Admiration for Dylan Thomas
Creation's Welchman walks behind his eyelids
New Year's Concert
Music filled the room with a thousand colours
Poem
Time's tom-fooling, high time's games
Cry! Cry! What Shall I Cry?
Wrapped in a sterilized code
To a Poet with Nothing to Write About
" ' Fool,' said the Muse, 'look into thy heart and write.' "
Pages
Current Issue: No. 299
