Memories of you
I am the worm
in the compost heap,
turning it over
breaking it down.
like a child
Green and short, he keeps his lawn.
Cock's foot, yarrow, creeping bent,
hound's tongue, daisy, speedwell,
all pushed out to the roadsides
of his memory, and to a patch
behind his garden shed,
where the undergrowth still holds
the bowl shape of a feral cat.
It was all his broken syntax
that really made her climax
If you have any comments on these poems, Tristan Moss
would be pleased to hear from you.