Robert Wylie

If the memory I have of you
Were small enough to fill a thimble
I would fill a thimble,
And keep it in my sight.
...

Small Scottish seaside towns,
Turning inwards to face the hills;
As if embarrassed by the unholy
Juxtaposition of church, and pub,
...

It seemed that there were
As many cameras as faces
In the streets around Trafalgar Square.
...

Don't let them kid you,
The slow, cardiganed men
On the bowling green.
...

A dying sun will
Finally succumb
To a night's whittling blade,
And I, blunt-faced
...

Waterside stewpot
Filled brim-full
With tarnished star-spangle,
And honest craft.
...

This river, a blade
Which would steal the life
From my body,
Prostitutes itself to the scabbard banks.
...

They have not, they cannot,
Will not, dare not
Invite me to the 'Turner Prize'.
...

Down beyond where the scarce sand
Apologises for dark mud,
The estuary boats rest keel-fast.
...

The train will pass above these gardens
In the mid-spring evenings
For many years to come,
And the downlookers
...

He told me that
He thought he was a letter,
That he was being written,
Though being allowed to
...

With Jean, by coach to Sudbury
By way of Finchingfield, where
Village on village (strung on
a thread of lanes) , leads to
...

The same thin, parsimonious wind
Which, now, and then blows against me,
Blew against the small, wet-sailed boat
Bobbing on the choppy water.
...

A reading of minus five,
The first cold of Winter
Hammers the fishermen
Into their stools,
...

A struggle!
From the first
Attempt at the nipple,
Until the final gasp,
...

He is still there, the leaf-sweeper,
But, older now,
No wiser, but older
...

Long, low, black slabs of cloud
Skim in from where winter hides
In it's Northern lair.
Although sitting in this Southern suburb,
...

All praise to you, Dimitri
For your love of Mother Russia.

All praise to you for consigning
...