Three Poems

TAEDIUM VITAE

The old man at the window
has no hands. On every row
the clock drops a stitch.
Slowly, with perfect pitch,
a soprano melts in flame.

The exiles draw another game.
Their last finger of gin
stands poured for one of them to win.
Good manners are preventing 'mate.
They do not see the gin evaporate.


WINTER ECONOMY

The horse turns its tail
into the flailing wind.

The labouring crow
is pitched over the oak
...