Sunday, 1 November 2015



the sense of never knowing

how another sees; though each human eye

can fold about the stars, project

a kind of homespun order on the void,

and though our features flow

in other veins, still

remains the chill sense

that, even skin to skin, a space divides us wider

than the sky; is this shade of blue

your shade of green, my world 

your world? Each child alone in darkness,

father, daughter, son

conjoined by love while every sight and scent

is formed by memories of what alone is ours,





  1. Pignant, Pedro. I felt the shivers up my spine. I'm glad you will give recording these a try. I would love to hear them in your you intended. I can only imagine, but I love their atmosphere and the stillness they evoke. Even his one...the still centre in a turning world. Wasn't that what TS Eliot wrote? Your poetry reminds me of his, and for me, he is it.

  2. Oh flip. Why can't I edit thee comments? That was meant to be 'poignant' pigs intended :)

  3. Gosh, Val, to be compared to TS is flattery indeed! Thank you so much! It's so gratifying and encouraging to have such wonderful feedback to my poetry and especially from someone whose opinion I respect so much. Thanks again! XXX