Andrew Moss Poems

There is a place, down by the bank of the river
where I go to write my poems
Twixt the trees and the plants which stick up sharp
And at the base of an old oak tree,
...

The glowing tip of my cancer stick is the only light I see
As the wind blows low, on the whitest snow, there is only it and me
I stand alone, a frozen gnome, wondering what will I be
And the crushing blow, too hard to know, is I cannot be free
...

Who will carry the torch?
When my father is gone
And by whom did his inner light shine?
And did cavemen tell stories round the fire?
...