Jacqui Thewless Poems

the circle-makers,
golden fish in a glass bowl;
single small raindrops
...

Inside the earth, the white clay is full.
It is the potter who lifts it
up to the librating wheel,
gathering emptiness -
...

I fold the towels by night.

The longer I stay and age,
the more I’m like the moon:
...

Why do we require
conspicuous reminders
of the singular -
...

The quietude of this small settlement
depends upon the brooding elements
in unison. Since July's come,
their calm Adagio
...

Saturday night:
two
dancing feet.
One red shoe
...

Sometimes, a body cannot see.
There was a blight on the rose tree,
a rat among the strawberries
and I cared not, ladies,
...

I’m thinking of shifting to
Something bigger than this.
...

Precious to me
is my sunny Welsh shore.

I am leaving it not
...