I am reading a paper book again.
The first in a long time.
I come across a place-name
Iíd like to know more about,
and I find myself wanting
to tap the paper
and highlight the word. But instead
Iíll have to go to another book,
like I used to, or my phone or pad.
My wife asks me to turn
out our bedside light.
When I do, she turns over
and I reach out to touch her,
but she is already asleep.



In the puddle
around the popping bubbles
ripples expand.


The Vicissitudes of a Sponge

I leave the perforated stone
on the kitchen windowsill,
to dry for a week or so
and then pick up its weight
and watch the sand drain out,
as if the water it once held
had fossilised too.



A dusting of snow
and my children jumping up and down
asking me to get their toboggan out.
Donít let this snow melt.



ďI pursue you where none else has pursued you, ...Ē From Walt Whitmanís ĎTo Youí.

Iím not going to talk
as if I might
be talking
about you. My experience
is not yours. And yours
not mine.

I will not speak for you.

I will not suggest,
as some poets do, the you 
you belong to
or do not.

I donít want to question
who you is?
That you is in bits.

But is
your you
the you
you want to be?
Or is it distant
like someone elseís?
Or does it capture
you completely?

I only ask

Tristan Moss

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