Cafe
The bowl of cawl warming your chat,
but through the glass Castell Harlech
sits squat and broods. The stone fed fat
on local blood must grip the land –
for here, both you and I, say ‘diolch’.
We walk the ramparts hand in hand.
Oils
Tethered to the bank,
distant from ebb and flow,
his boat with red paint
weathered away –
as though the owner
had no where to go.
But under the bridge
sails a catamaran
like an eager lover
splashing out to sea –
her painted bow
craved by waves.
My brother, once a ferryman,
a fisherman, a harbour
of dreams – furrows
his brow, drags colours
across canvas –
the rust of seagull voices.
Copyright © Phil Wood 2017
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His writing can be found in various publications, most recently in: The Lampeter Review and Clear Poetry.
The Open Mouse 