Poems by Richard, Part 3

Another batch of verse from Mr H.


White dots
On pale green shoots
Winter’s first

Hard to imagine
A flower furled
So unobtrusively.

Hard to remember
Such tiny heralds
Of our January deaths.

Now as they multiply
Under the hedgerows
And old stone walls

Their white flowers
Drift luxuriantly
Like the down
Of kidnapped birds.


No More (on moving …)

The pheasants won’t perch
On the ledge, cock
Their heads and look suggestively
In to ask for food.

The old badger won’t snuffle
And snort and crunch away
At the apples I left on the grass
Below the bedroom window.

The moths won’t flap around
The bathroom light
And spread their wings
Upon the mirror each night.

The sparrow hawks won’t scream
From the beech woods
On top of the hill behind us
Before shooting into the air.

The wasps and bees
Won’t hum like one vast hive
In the ivy on the old stone walls
Searching out the flowers.

The wind will still blow,
The clouds will still sail over
The rain will still fall
The snow will still glow.

After we are gone
Somewhere else.



It’s only a brief
Hump in the landscape
Seen from the train

But it looks
Like the huge undulations
Of a Canadian prairie,

Vast fields, houses,
Telegraph poles, cyclists
Miniaturised, isolated
Within the atonal
Harmonies of space.

Maybe that is what
Comes after life, not
Breathing but breathed.

Not erased but lost
In endless alphabets.

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