She says things out of context
and thinks I’ll cotton on,
like ‘make it with fresh lemons’.
A week before she’d asked me
if I’d make lentil soup
with chillies.

It’s as if she needs to know
she can pull together
our pasts just as easily
as the small, tight stitches
in our near present.
But all too often
these longer threads
are lost to me.

Cookers and eaters

He says: ‘There are cookers
and eaters in the staffroom’.
And I imagine
a group of fallen angels,
all bruised and broken winged,
hungry to escape.


At the Yorkshire Museum,
black, immaculate ammonites
delighted my children's eyes.
Now at Runswick Bay,
little hands grip tight
fragments of last week's perfection.

I find a more complete coil
but they're not interested.
They only want
those with clear, sharp lines.

Tristan Moss

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Tristan Moss would be pleased to hear them.