Peter Jones Poems

There’s low scudding clouds on the sea today
and the rain lashes hard in my face
the boarded-up cafes have nothing to say
and I am alone in this place.
...

Shaken by jackdaws, in their fluttering castles,
To steal whistling arrows from forgotten fields,
I hear the blackthorn twistily move amendments
to old postcards of tilted-at windmills;
...

Come give me your tomorrow
And I shall give you mine
And all our thens and never-were’s
Will celebrate a time.
...

From Montmartre to the Gare Du Nord,
the Faubourg St Denis drops down
through warrened streets of nothingness;
anonymous. At times: winter greyed and traffic roared;
...

In all, in all, in coming then;
you come in grace
to walk down one fine morning.
And I shall gentle you in all,
...

You were holding history then:
long and so long ago:
the un-faced shops that nobody minded
holding to life merely by habit.
...

Do not call my name, nor grieve.
Neither fear some false deceiving pain
Borne aloft by memories.
But weave a leitmotif
...

Un-colour the sound of the darkened sea;
to leave it outlined in white.
Let the fire-blackened globe
continue to probe
...

It was well enough done in Cobbledock Lane:
Breathing the grey waked morning.
And the barrels, kicked from the dray
spoke rebellion:
...

The Guardians of the Gate are there
And will not let me through.
Their swords ring thunder in the night
And draw a blind across my sight.
...