Monday 14 November 2022

Three Poems by Gordon Scapens


The fall of water

stiffens to ice.

Playtime is finished,

its merriment stolen

along with its dance.

The freeze consumes

the thrash of stream,

a threat carried out,

a speech of intent

without an answer

ending dreams of travel.

Water music has died.

But re-awakening is coming

in the shape of sun flirting

higher in the sky each day

as Spring brings its news,

the debt to time is paid.

Meanwhile I admire the artistry

of this uncompromising season

whose time is limited,

and this measure of winter

I’ll carry like a gift in my mind

to tell the story

of Nature’s improvised, silent jazz.

A three dimensional poem.


They come seeking a new life.

Four ants at first, feverish

to dress the contours of my kitchen

with dreams of a working colony.

Next morning a horde arrives,

shedding faith in the past,

arranging the marching pattern

into a language for invaders.

The dilemma stares at me

like an overdue bill

and tolerance is only a skin

that peels off on demand.

Aliens, not of my world

what conspiracy brings them?

Why didn’t they understand

conditions of a previous home?

I can’t share space this way

and panic has no patience.

I use insect spray, a solution

that doesn’t ask questions.

But, my own rights diminished,

the can reeks of accusation.

In an uncertain hand

it feels as heavy as guilt.


You’ll recognize a word

that speaks your life

in the space of a second,

acknowledge eyes that fill time

with a new moving story

through the midnight hour.

a silence will be gifted

that peels your face

to a readable book,

and a touch explaining

yesterday’s promise

is not out of date.

You’ll react to an absence

knocking down your days

in a game of skittles,

admit to those secret tears

that fit well enough

to be made-to- measure.

You’ll know when

and be willing

to accept the price.

Gordon Scapens - Widely published over many years in numerous magazines, journals ,anthologies and competitions. Currently preparing a collection. Lives in a suburb of Preston with his wife, who’s friend, critic, muse and editor. Plays acoustic guitar averagely to her singing.

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