John Scully

I found yesterday
today,
through unlit corridors,
and saw catastrophies
...

Long ash coats and cherry faces
say nearly, but not quite.
Long grey coats and beady faces
say tomorrow, maybe.
...

Amidst the hills full and lonely
I walked the ragged paths and stumbled stones,
Looking for a kind of longing,
A memory of that one day in June so long ago.
...

On a wild and dreary hill,
the sun still on the horizon,
a running flock of birds
swirled and gathered, home to roost.
...

When I know that evening's fog
will no more haunt and cloister me
I will come and walk with you awhile
knowing that my gloomy face will smile again.
...

When the morning was over
and the sun crumbling noon,
the ants kissed the patio dust
disappearing down cracks of the dead.
...

The muffled-knock of high blown summer,
upon the leaves and grasses August since June,
wrap tightly like bundled flowers,
around the jaundiced seasoned air.
...

Last night it rained
and the night before
when the soup kitchen came.
Nice people those
...

Don't break some heart
before you wish the week away
for whatever how it goes
one day will do for me.
...

For I was reared in the great city
And saw nought but the sky
And the town's people
Packed in their caves
...

I thought I heard your morning step
but it was my heart beating
missing steps
as I spoke you name.
...

Rooks cawed,
over apples sliced and stored,
while nothing else stirred the air.
The day: Had a certain mystery and magic,
...

Western Winds of glory
drive across the waves
are sometimes kind and fair
to boatmen scurrying home
...

Running North, South, East and West
familiar summer fetes have suffered loss
as foaming, tossing floods
break over man-made and country things.
...

On weed encumbered banks; I saw her
drifting in and out of sleep.
There was a little dew upon her dress
which made it nothing less
...

Do you ever walk through Regents, Green or Holland Park,
And wonder why, no sparrows?
London's chirpy little chappies, I do.
How I miss Agatha
...

He's in here already
The God of my childhood
Of the long white beard
The God of my youth.
...

The last finger folds of grief,
the sad-coloured twisted tissues,
loitering with noxious blubbings.
Where is my father now?
...

Till meadows weep with pollen drops,
And flowers turn to fruit
The ghosts of winter glimmer still
Among the frosty village frocks.
...

That day again,
Every year just the same,
Repeats on telly
Visits from Vi and Nellie,
...