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.

Measurement

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
frost
a seed
settlement.

Does it matter?
Both sides
still concrete

unless
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.

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About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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