Chrys Salt Poems

There are no maps for poets in this country.
The compass finger, mindless on its post
will not direct us on this dangerous journey.
An unfamiliar landscape tells us we are lost.
...

Dave Cork and me behind the chicken shed.
‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine’ he said.
Some of his Wrigleys for a flash,
that was the deal. (I wanted cash) !
...

Old Lag’s don’t dance, and yet they do keep time –
Time’s what they do, reeling with all things done
each quick-step slowing to the measured chime
of clocks that drag each minute through the bone.
...

The wet road follows us -
a gleaming tail
looping round steep and lake.
Bleak sodden sheep
...

The Loss

His mother lived
...