That first sound splintering the listening dark,
letting the light slip in between the notes —
a blackbird, surely, surer now, his spark
picked up by robins. Liquid tuning floats
through unseen branches, marking territories
of nests and mating, brings the grudging air
its first flushed streak of colour. In the trees
a strengthening music, patterned like a prayer.
Bank Holiday
Whippily snippily
bitter north-easterly
sending the day trippers
scuttling inland
leaving the locals now
incontrovertibly
lords of the seashore
and acres of sand.
The Loch Ness Monster
You camera-fussing crowd, you’re all the same,
trying to nail the final proof, a shot
to grab the headline news and make your name.
D’you think I’ll join with such a silly plot?
Do I exist?, you ask. How weary all
your questions are around identity.
What you believe is immaterial.
I’m who I am — and I believe in me.
D.A. Prince
If you have any thoughts about these poems, D.A. Prince would like to hear them
