Pete Crowther Poems

Last year my mother died.
I was not there; she died alone.
It was mid-winter when
we buried her. The roads were treacherous
...

I’ve never heard your voice nor seen
Your face or felt your touch but yet
I feel I know you better than
I know my sister or my brother.
...

I never open envelopes
addressed:
“The occupier” or,
worse still,
...

When I was a child
My mother took me
To look for violets.
They grew in a secret place
...

Down by the dockside
Round the corner past the pub
The tagareen man
Has a tagareen shop
...

Beneath the clouds the rocky cliff
Rose up a thousand feet at least
And seemed to dominate the vale
Like some enormous castle wall
...

The poems on the printed page
Began as whispers in the mind
But now attentively they stand
Neat artefacts in black and white
...

You see them in all seaside towns
Late summer, say, around the time
The schools go back. They congregate
Like swallows do on lines and wires
...

Wee black pup
jumping up
wagging tail
like a flail,
...

There’s going to be a thunderstorm quite soon,
The air is still, the sky is growing darker,
Clouds tower above and menacingly loom.
I’m sitting in the summer house beneath
...