Ian Bowen Poems

Sad, how this
as turned out,
I could have sworn
that this was the Real McCoy,
...

When I was only
as high
as the small hedges
that divided farms,
...

As he marches on,
collecting the souls
of unexpected victims,
prizing his way
...

Don’t you just hate it,
when you read a poem
and you do not understand
a bloody word?
...

How cold the hand
that clutches winter
by its tail. How warm the heart
whose eyes fall upon
...

Slow lingering kisses
by a log fire; that burns
and flickers with myriad coloured flames..
Perfume of candles enhance senses.
...

Do you remember the things
that 'come in' and then 'go out'?
The tight jeans of the 50s,
and those high heel shoes,
...

When I was only
as high
as the small hedges
that divided farms,
...

I would think
by the look on her face
we are approaching
the halfway point
...