Tardis

The Dr Who scarf my grandmother knitted
     reached around my neck, seven times,
then down to my ankles: now across years




Wave

Spring idles by.
No pace to that walk.
As if it has
every day till summer.



The end

of this poem
is at
the start.

The start
of this poem
is at
the end.
 
 Seth Crook


If you have any comments on this poem, Seth Crook would be pleased to hear from you.