Tristan Moss: three poems

My Old English Sheepdog

On windy days,
I sometime think
that I might spy
between the weeping
willow’s branches
one of his eyes.


Yes, we’re oddly shaped
when compared to Archimedes’
perfectly rectangular tub.

And when in
we’re not allowed to float;
we must push
our bodies under.

And the more of ourself
that displaces water
the more normal
we become.

A crack in the concrete

The cause?
a root
a seed

Does it matter?
Both sides
still concrete

this rift widens
and more spread

beyond a mosaic,

beyond the concrete.

Copyright © Tristan Moss 2017

Tristan Moss has recently had poems in Algebra of Owls, Snakeskin, London Grip and Amaryllis.


About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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