This Older Driver

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I want our lowering sun to burn
for a much - much - longer last hour -
or even more - brighter than now .../


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Mushrooming

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Theirs is a new
imperialism of ill will -
an underfoot tendril -
like fungi it spreads
.../


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British Summer Time

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Do not turn back the clocks
unless you have the time
to reset your circadian rhythm
and so to fall into line .../


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Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore*

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

As disordered pages
I read back my life -
until you - as Ludmilla -
entered mine .../


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Turns

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I returned the ripped heart
of Saint Laurence O'Toole -
canonised post-mortem
for acts whilst entombed .../


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The Gift

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

It is as if
you were delivered to us
to bear witness .../


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This Parish

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

We stick to the leaf-kicked route -
a parting of the dry sea of leaves
cleared by dog-following boots .../


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For a Pot of Paint

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

The tall bay window
is our empty white frame -
on the front of this home
of unshuttered shame .../


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Hangover

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

There is an almost mist of ghostly off-loadings -
like pellucid Nan Tuck - or the long-lost Lord Lucan .../


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In the Eye

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Women slip from winsome
under their senescent faces -
their hands steal the looks
off youth's eyed-embraces .../


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