How can I become
that horse
snorting the ice-cold air,
instead of the child,
arm outstretched,
who attempts to feed it?


I pushed a log into the flame
wanting all our years to blaze away.
Now morning and half the log still remains,
all my ifs glistening black
in the rain.

Back to work

Fresh turf unfurls
like a dead body,
all over me.

If maintained
it should take root
and last the year.

The earliest known art

is deep in a cave
as if its artist knew
the further back they went
the more wondrous
their stencilled hand would be.
Now, distant in time, too,
its aesthetic has endured
even Plato's onslaughts.

Tristan Moss

If you have any comments on these poems, Tristan Moss would be pleased to hear from you.