Here am I
to jump
this stream,
and over there
is the Humber bridge.

The Surface

Last night, this river froze over,
and on its surface
are beer bottles, cans,
paper cups and plastic bags,
as if all waiting
for it to melt,
which, of course,
it will.


My son runs down the stairs,
thereís a spider in the bathroom, kill it.

After some time, I find one.
Is this it? Itís tiny.

Donít show it me. Iím scared.
Why? He keeps his distance.

Cos it could disappear at any moment,
but still be there.


Iíd never have bought
one of these shirts
with their bold checks.

And when people said
how nice I looked
in one of them,
I'd reply it was a present
from my mum.

(My mum,
who Iíd been closest to
until nine and her affair.)

Now, there are no more
to unwrap,
and I can be myself
all the time,
though they
were always
the favourite part of me.


loveís this old
iron fence,
some curves
rusted fully through -

lines, like when
a sketch,
now completed
by what
they suggest

my poems

seem to me
that new tv
my tv
is trying to convince
me to buy

with its sound and resolution
trapped inside
the inferior
sound and resolution
of mine

Tristan Moss

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