Robert Wylie Poems

If the memory I have of you
Were small enough to fill a thimble
I would fill a thimble,
And keep it in my sight.
...

Small Scottish seaside towns,
Turning inwards to face the hills;
As if embarrassed by the unholy
Juxtaposition of church, and pub,
...

It seemed that there were
As many cameras as faces
In the streets around Trafalgar Square.
...

Don't let them kid you,
The slow, cardiganed men
On the bowling green.
...

The same thin, parsimonious wind
Which, now, and then blows against me,
Blew against the small, wet-sailed boat
Bobbing on the choppy water.
...

A dying sun will
Finally succumb
To a night's whittling blade,
And I, blunt-faced
...

Waterside stewpot
Filled brim-full
With tarnished star-spangle,
And honest craft.
...

This river, a blade
Which would steal the life
From my body,
Prostitutes itself to the scabbard banks.
...

They have not, they cannot,
Will not, dare not
Invite me to the 'Turner Prize'.
...

Down beyond where the scarce sand
Apologises for dark mud,
The estuary boats rest keel-fast.
...