Sadly, I imagine you will wake, too,
because the silence has changed colour,

the way, fluting across a murky water,
a swan’s light may gently startle you,
gleaming through the curtains of your eyes.

Wake, though with the softest of violence,
snow has played you a nocturne of lightest
down, quilted you in symphonic hush,
mesmerised you in your sleep.

A captive audience,
your fidgeting legs are swathed,
your cough stilled, by chords of white –
you are laid to rest at every cadence.

Oblivious to the cold auditorium,
your lulled capillary thoughts
are tingling, pleasantly beating time.

Wake, and they are jerking the pendulum,
flailing, frantically rattling the case;
and you are shivering in your bed –

horribly alone, except for you,
and the Arctic waste to face.

Selected bySara Clancy
Image credit:Photo by Nick Fewings

There's not much to tell. I'm originally from Liverpool but have been living in London since 1970. I read a lot of poetry and I read my own poetry regularly. I hope other people read it and derive as much pleasure out of it as I do. My output is small, about 120 poems as I am only an occasional poet. Most of my poems are based on my own experiences, including some sad ones. About thirty have been published in UK poetry magazines a long time ago: in Outposts, Envoi and The Rialto. When I am not reading, I enjoy theatre, cinema, classical music, jazz, gardening, travel and walking my dogs with my wife.