Title
reading in bed
i stroke your creased spine
gently opened to my favourite passage
thumb on well thumbed lips
a book mark on speech
our backs will show
we lay here long
War Memorial
rush of blood the dead
sculpted into stone- skin
smooth hacking chisel
carving a cancer clear
polished and presented
Atlas
the ink on the map is long dry
by the time you read it
under frozen rivers
the paper drifts and grinds
the mountains are shifted
from your snapshot
the name remains
left behind a mask
a bind
you can read this poem
and you can find me
but I won't be there
