We stayed the night,
and left as chilly dawn
broke a pale yolk above
an empty car-park.
Groups of birds flapped in trees,
like strips of black sky
torn by barbed branches.
A week into Spring,
and now its starting to snow.
Perhaps the years heard your news,
gone mad -
and shuffled its seasons
to end in May.
|What the reviewers
have said about The Lowest Level:
"It is one of the best poetry chapbooks Ive read in quite a long time...
He uses poetry against itself, and uses poetic convention against his subjects."
"When you read his collection you find that what is really interesting is the
implied connection between the grotty world he describes and the linguistic play
that provides an antidote - of sorts..." - George Simmers. Sphinx Magazine.
To buy a copy of The Lowest Level please send a cheque for
£3.00 (including P&P) to the address below.
White Leaf Press
PO Box 734