Poetry from Tom England
These sad thoughts that follow you round like
Leaves. Once, once only, you see your son
In the garden, at the glass house, pressing seeds
Into cold dark soil. A radio buzzes somewhere.
It is stranger than a dream. You try and throw it off
Like old shoes, or a bad cold from standing
Too long in the rain. He lifts the tray and replaces it
On the shelf, and closes the panel silently. You wonder,
How long will he stay? But already he has gone,
Leaving only, on the flags, a shadow, black dust.
You try and tell yourself that it matters,
Or means something.
Tom England lives and teaches in Cheshire, England, and has had poems and stories published in Confingo, Smeuse, and The Mystery Tribune.