Christopher Woodall Poems

When a man stands on the edge of the moor
Receiving the wind’s rough investiture
Of all that power which remains extant
From the creation of air, sea and land
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Novus Actus Interveniens


My time; I naively believe
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The buses leave at dawn, with protest songs
On the lips of the old and young alike,
Returning in warm numb silence at night
On the eve of revolution. The throngs
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A man in London and damp skies up here
Declare rain and storm; a dark wave rears up
But the blow does not fall. My footsteps veer
Into alleyways of a mildewed look.
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The hills will wander in their time
Over the bones of men
Who once when suited thought it fine
To booted walk on them;
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I lie resting half into the sand
And she pulses against me
As softly as the edge of the sea
Envelopes the edge of the land;
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There was a shed I never saw
In a corner, spider-ridden,
When I came in the night to seduce you.
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My girl with her blue eyes in the night
Stares with the passivity of Scottish mountains
And the urgency of emergency light;
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My emerald tie in the sunlight
Circling this occasional pool
With the dignity of an albatross
Lapping the earth in an afternoon.
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The wind blows boyish smiles across my face
Or so it seems, my love returns the look,
The same breeze turns over leaves in my book
Abandoned to the grass while we play chase.
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