John Dixon Poems

Moorfields station, Circle Line.
You were the last one out
from the earth
where the city dreamed you
...

A day came when I held my father's jackplane,
the salt grout of his sweat on heavy beech.
I worked a face and edge on a cedar stave
that breathed the resin of dark woods
...

Seasons have blown away
into the mulch of years
since last I saw
the hills
...

I took her furtive page
of classroom writing book
and came at dusk, under the windows
of the West-Herts town,
...

There was a young fellow whose mind
Was exceedingly keen and refined.
He said, 'Since I was small
There's been nothing at all
...

Maybe all stories are a screen
through which a moral shines,
maybe our pangs of guilt demean
whatever love refines,
...