Comments about Roy Stannard
When Winter dons its black cap
and passes judgement on Autumn
and the landscape loses its colour certificate
I can trace the Summer synapses in the leaves
shorting in miniature Nagasakis
as the ground melts into uncertainty beneath my feet.
The flower negatives freeze into graven images
that no-one can hear but all can feel
This is the bitter seasoning spooned by designer ladle
We count the minutes of daylight like poll station misers
And watch birds shiver in mid-flight
Sometimes the time of year becomes a time of ...