Anvil Press Poetry

‘His poetry, always strongly imbued with a sense of the sacred, makes great play of light’s spiritual resonance … his brilliant imagery and luxuriant natural descriptions offer plenty to enjoy.’
– Sarah Crown, The Guardian on The Dark Age (2007)

The Shadow

Would lope behind him up the mountains
Whistling a tune or resting, hands on hips,
And stroll with him through fields of waist-high wheat
Listening to his distracted murmurings;
It sat beside him on the rain-drenched boat
That reared up, whale-like, on the lake, and sang
A song of comfort only he could hear;
He could not see it in the starlit garden
But it was kneeling there, with palms raised up.
When he was executed on the hill
It merged into the shadow of the tree
The stormlight cast across the face of earth,
Waiting until the spirit left his body;
And in the silence of the place of tombs
When he shone like a thousand burning candles
It had already gone back home
To join the dark beyond the light, to wait
For him, its earthly shadow, to return.