Monday, 23 April 2012

Whisperers, written and read by Alan Gilbert.


Creeping silently
Soft fingered dusk,
Treads light upon
Moss painted walks.
Cloaking potting sheds
And greenhouse glass,
Then dulls the sheen
On apples at a pass.

Spreading effortless
Along the rows
Of beans and berries
Cardamom and thyme.
To cool the scented spoil
Of lawn mowed hay
Where languid tabby’s
Scratch the night away.

Stepping nimbly
Over lily ponds
Where keen eyed fishes
Hunted summer flies.
Now in the welcome shade
From day long heat,
An alabaster dancer
Cools her tired feet.

Copyright© Alan Gilbert 2012.

Thursday, 19 April 2012


My dad made the boilers
For warships and liners,
Huge prisons of steel
For the scolding hot steam.
There was pride in each rivet
Every pattern completed,
When he told me his yarns
I could see his eyes gleam.

Some days he would take me
To stand at the dock head,
He knew all the names
And the places they'd been.
I imagined us sailing
The ships he was part of,
But asbestos killed him
And ended the dream.

Copyright© Alan Gilbert 2012.

Tuesday, 3 April 2012

Arid As Atacama

These times of low reception 
Unnerving me somehow. 
The frailest self-deception 
Falls painful on the brow. 
Piercing through the armour 
Which never should allow, 
A fear you may forget me 
For now, and now, and now. 

Atacama has a cactus 
That thrives without the rain, 
No wells or rivers feed it 
Yet still it makes its gain. 
Now with this veil upon me 
And no way to explain, 
My soul's an arid fragment 
Becoming dust again.

Copyright© Alan Gilbert 2012.

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