Nathan Thompson

the twelve dancing princesses

stone makes fools

clear water assists the tribe with difficulties

the way walkers place bets on the next

and final

it is in the aftermath

of tin private galleries

a girl bends the question to find answers

gone on the shape of tides

more than the least

mother it is midnight still motion

Mrs Auden falls in love with Mr Harwood’s girl from the city

All her gardens were curious

and the way she lost their scent

was the beautiful way a child

snaps a daisy-chain by accident.

In this ‘half-holy’ summer rain

growing grass around her,

a name spoken indicates

such a soft enwrapping flower.

The greenest jewellery

beyond her paths

linking these gardens

telling no story.

joy

not sure the sing

the seed in the head

he works for twenty four

on rain a jagged bird

means directions among rocks who talks

out rubber oil weather

don’t pretend to know

that’s the first and don’t be powerful

‘a creak on the stairs’ clumps of moon

built like something thrown in your eyes

I won’t guess leaning

shallow perhaps reflecting

service

mellifluous rituals in the dark

a violin spurting a bunch of hoe-downs happy as a full vase

and winter steaming off the corrugated roof singing and rattling a kettle on a ringed hob

a sentimental point made by some flowers

where we court

streets wringing

lamps gently to light

an emergency

there is no love

green flows nights are no longer dear

my dear

tell me

where the birds are