The garden reeks of a season’s neglect,
the sweet, dank mould of cherry leaves,
parsimonious winter. Failing to make
amends; pigeons coo arguments
from an outhouse roof.
You ham it up by calling it regret.
The moon’s blur lights an island of cloud.
Nothing’s out of place but your self –
or that’s what you’re thinking
(if that’s your voice you hear speaking),
but it’s doing you no good.
Originally published by Various Artists; copyright Tom Phillips 2012
Originally published by Various Artists; copyright Tom Phillips 2012
