Pond, woodcut by Frederick Nunley
Used here with his kind permission






 

 

 

 

 

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Pip Wilson

 

 

 

 

This is the blog where I post poetry as I find it in the fishpond outside the door of my garden flat.

 

 

 

 



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Friday, February 18, 2005

Those days of his youth: thoughts were words, words were truth
and a vow was a vow, made to keep,
and feelings were felt. "Man, she's clever, she's built ...
think she likes me!" The quilt cannot cover his guilt;
and her warmth can't thaw John Graham's sleep.

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