Graham Fowell Poems
|43.||Missing In Acton||3/12/2015|
Comments about Graham Fowell
I saw a fly trapped
In a long abandoned spider's web.
The web weaver moved on to better pickings
Or herself taken by a bird,
The predicament of the fly - ensnared in an untended trap,
Was to be doomed to a meaningless end,
A casualty of a gap in the natural order,
To struggle and die in vain
So I carefully liberated the fly
Who sat nearby for a while,
Washing his face,
Untangling his feet,
Sorting his wings out - then,
In the early morning June sunshine,
He flew off with a sort of Victory Roll,
Loop the ...
The rolling December fog
Drifts aloft while the smoke grey beech silhouettes
Baffle the whispering river.
The small warm beating hearts
Of Colombaccio high above
Join me on this astral plane
While my soul is carried somewhere here
Amongst this aged sinew.