Edwin Brock Poems

grow in the mind,
their rhymes chiming endlessly
with the sound of feet walking
or rain falling or being taken up
...

White on dark water, so stark
I leave my binoculars behind
and watch with bare red eyes
two swans, taut with sexuality,
...

In a house
at the edge of a cliff
you can hear the sea
even with the windows closed
...

Into this muddy coastline
the North Sea seeps silently
twice a day
under the kestrel's weather eye
...

It is a sinking
into sand; marram grass
too sharp to lie on; eyes
stinging in the wind, and
...

It is surprising to be here, now,
among these people at the end.
Far way, or so it seems, from
anywhere where anything happened.
...