No Rest

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Do not tarry for too many minutes below Chanctonbury’s decimated circle of silvered-skin beech trees They were planted without regard for any long-term fixing agreement set fast to grow by a man’s measures of water on their fragile root balls There on disturbed nights that dark copse is circled by foul-mouthed flying guides Above you...


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Hamilton Place

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

The tin top cottages
should be haunted - but there is no ghost -
no made-pail Hoogstraten .../


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Ghost Holes

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

This bar's serving hatch is always left agape -
tonight I see it is a varnished picture frame
holding unfair perspectives of the pirouettes
of the not-Degas barmaids in uniform black .../


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Ghosts

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

They say that there is a ghost
in every old house

That frigorific forms will rise
to meet with warm blood
and damp bones ...


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St. Anne’s Hill

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

My father died
aged fifty-five,
I was aged
twenty-three,
he slipped away
at St. Peter's
...


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