Len Webster Poems

On the night that they hanged Saddam Hussein
We were not speaking.
Weary and bored, not least by the high winds,
We were barely curious, our attention
...

Am I reaching the pale stretch home now?
Wire-lines are confused and a complex pattern
Is weaving its changing way past scrapyards
And ghost-inhabited derelict stations.
...

Late night TV is not generally for me.
The sight of Baddiel and Skinner on a set
Never rouses me to ecstasy
Or, at least, it hasn't yet
...

The New Establishment is very well-meaning,
Believes in Democracy, holds itself Accountable to the People,
Gathers in Evidence
To re-mould the Truth about itself,
...

Old age is

When the winter is never-ending
And bones groan through
...

Am I reaching the pale stretch home now?
Wire-lines are confused and a complex pattern
Is weaving its changing way past scrapyards
And ghost-inhabited derelict stations.
...

I was brought up
in a lost time
when a liberal
education
...

The season of butterflies is the season of dragonflies
Hovering in a breeze that controls their fate.

Seen like that, trying to keep control, but edging forward,
...

I dreamed of the snowmaiden,
white and soft,
of endless warmth
...

News from home is very scarce
all hell and heaven lie in grains of knowledge
we glean from passing conversations
...