Echoes
 
In the gym 
a basket ball bounces
to a stop.


On Early Maps
 
fat rivers invade the land
like the tendrils of a kraken.


Daffodil Buds
 
Brush heads
plump from the paint pot
in the sky.
 
 
Murder
 
A single bullet
is always heard
more clearly.
 
 
Winter
 
On the gravel path
a tracery of shadows
falling from the trees.

Tristan Moss

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tristan Moss   would be pleased to hear them.