The Comet




Moonlight, daffodils, a weeping willow,

and in the northern sky a comet

with a ghostly tail.  The letter

was my last hope, and time

was running out for a reply.  Soon

the comet would be gone, my heart

with it.


Every night the mail tray,

checking and rechecking then stuffing

it all back, the comet a little lower,

a little brighter.  Daffodils and dreams,

your voice and your tender smile.


Another full moon,

a spray of white blossom,

my footsteps hollow on the broken path.


Paul Beech


Copyright © Paul Beech 1997

(Previously published on the author’s own blog, Grandy’s Landing.)






A silvered bay, calm.


The moon shines in his window,

coolly observant:

detritus on desk,

scribbled blotter ivory,

coffee-cup rings brown…


The poet lives on,

passion and pain aquiver

in pearly moondust.


Paul Beech


Copyright © Paul Beech 2013

(Previously published on Linkedin and the author’s own blog, Grandy’s Landing.)

Poems by Grant Tarbard

Observing the Sabbath


Sabbath on yellow

Wolf’s mountain, no false

Idols are present.

Ladybird incense

Languishes, floating.


Gifts from my Son





under the gallows


of a Belgian battlefield


he picks a relic



a dagger of wood


lying in its grave so long


resurrection was



a certainty, all


he had to do was prize it


from the bank of soil



wrestle the husk from


the uncertain gale of time’s


russet paroxysm







under the rock crown


of a Tintagel grotto


lies the magics source



weeping turquoise tears


of departing smoke vapours


sorcery in an



unmarked grave. The cave


was flooded when he went there


he had his knights quest



to bring me back a


piece of Arthur, of Merlin


of Britain itself