Tag Archives: Phil Wood

Phil Wood: Two poems

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 … Continue reading

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Phil Wood

Dry Stone Enough throughstones for repair work, two lines of face and coping ready, plenty of hearting in buckets. Kate waits. Then skips across the field. She’s shaping air with hands again, her yellow frock a summer’s day. Now it’s … Continue reading

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Phil Wood

Surf No wave, no life, washes up on the beach but the T-Shirt does not fit. No matter, after drying the cotton on granite, the metaphysics shrink and I move on beyond this cove, trudging back up the cliff. Above … Continue reading

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Phil Wood

Cairn The crag like a humpback beached in solitude, the cloth of sea mist weathering her skin. I am lost without a map, compass, and just that cairn – a mocking grey finger seemingly marking a path  – stacked by … Continue reading

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Phil Wood

Pearl Translucence, a simple glaze of indigo and woad for her background. There is no clutter of lovers’ letters, no stage of maps and lutes. In abeyance she turns to gaze at him, a brush of light parting her lips. … Continue reading

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Phil Wood

Missing the 7.30     Dark and dank in the subway, where a pale youth plays his stairway song. The sound is a taproot sucking her dry: a memory sighs, flickers, a star expiring to shadow. She stands alone in … Continue reading

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