Afternoon Song
You there in your old, cold country
Do you think of me
As a bay in North Sicily,
Or rumpled bedroom flooded with heat and light
(From which you cannot keep out
a small cry in the night)
Hot despite all slats and flats of your
Shuttered North doors that can hardly withdraw
All the heat of the day,
At least you can park all your secrets in shade
Until evening takes some heat from your blushes,
Your burns and the drops of your foolish, salt tears
first published online Sentinel Literary Quarterly (January 2010 issue)
Dominic James, approaching middle age, William Yeats and holidays with caution, has been reading with the Bright Scarves poets in Richmond for two years. A prizewinning essayist and short story writer these days he says it's all poetry. Contactable on djames@daemonbook.co.uk
2 comments:
Great to see the first 'snapshot' and I very much enjoyed Dominic's poem.
Good poem, isn't it, thanks. I'm getting your poem ready to put up on the 18th Oct :)
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