james watkin Poems

Nothing too clear
Is kept in mind.
But when by what most precious of
Glassed pond confined
...

With as little thought, think you
Can be brushed aside
All their concerns, as waste of
Sweepings to one side?
...

The dying, in a gold light
Said to soft fade away.
Pointing to the year itself
I can attest to it.
...

Nature, all worn out
Droopy, bedraggled
Needs too, child, be put to sleep.
Bee-ringing bulb - deep!
...

Facing equally strange
Each smiles from out
Its own low-born setting.
Own life story.
...

Either way is life a fair thing.
A rose, with thorn hid.
Or blue flag iris, held up as.
Smelt a bog amid.
...

A window view
Out each clear sky
Does this old belief raise
In church hymning.
...

Things most rued, lost to recall.
And thus no longer
Can be re-gained, the feeling
Of pleasure attached.
...

He that hears in everything
Whilst peace abounds
Man, beast, and blown bush, a scream
'All's cursed' propounds.
...

Subdued, this eve, by a brood
Of gentler quiets
My heart. As varied, that blown
Leaf-like, of upsets.
...