Widow Grammar
Three widows take their bodies and umbrellas into town,
Still semi-dwelling in damp unread newspaper thoughts,
Stepping onto the 9.48 bus,
Thumbing their disquiet into the seats.
Three widows rattle along inside a rheumatic ill winter,
Shaking their symptoms onto one another.
They adjust to their horoscopes,
Haul prescient heart sacks around town
And collect days on their backs.
Three widows take their bodies and umbrellas to visit others,
Spinning their widow grammar across houses
with wilting flowers
The Seagull Prison
There is a diesel cry of a seagull encircling this coastal town,
Carrying your left behind sighs and intermittent tenderness,
I retrieve scraps of you from the deserted quay,
Cut off in a numb suspended biopic,
Left to play back after recording itself,
Stuttering along in blunt irrelevance.
I watch from my mind's uneasy deckchair,
At the end of the beach.
I guess he cared in his own way.
Photography from Foy TimmsPoems by Foy Timms : “Prising a Hibernation from Beneath a Winter Coat” “Ceaseless” “My Night as a Scar on Your Chin” “Curtain House Wounds” “Tableau” “Folding the Night into a Black Cab”
Fevers of the Mind 