the views expressed
are those of a lover,
and do not
part of me’s
one of those picturesque villages
that’s stayed the same
who have no interest
in nearby places
that had to change.
slippery patch of ice
she walks over it
he walks round it.
Sorry, this poem isn't in to take your call at present.
But if you'd like to leave a few words
or even some sort of a message,
it might get back to you later.
Just before the small dimly lit church closes,
a priest goes round
locking the shutters and putting out the candles.
As he does so, the candles' smell intensifies,
until it’s all that remains.
If you have any comments on his poems, Tristan Moss
would be pleased to hear from you.