The Evening Star
I heard his heavy clump
up the side passage;
his cough in the kitchen.
Peeping, I saw him
pull off his boots;
smelled sand and cement.
After dinner, his Old Holborn
hung thick cloud over us;
the racing pages smouldered.
All I could see of him
were his trouser legs,
his feet on the mantelpiece,
a hand reaching for a mug of tea,
till I made my sister cry
or gave mum some lip,
then, he twisted the paper
into a baton,
and whacked out a silence.
At bedtime, leaning over to kiss him,
I saw the bags under his eyes,
the ash in the folds of his shirt.
Page(s) 49
magazine list
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- French Literary Review, The
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- Interpreter's House, The
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- Lamport Court
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- Matter
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- Monkey Kettle
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- North, The
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- Obsessed with pipework
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- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
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- Poetry London (1951)
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
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- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
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- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The