The Comet

 

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.)

Moondust

 

MOONDUST

 

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

 

1.

 

 

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

 

 

 

2.

 

 

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