Peter Robinson
- When with my judgment I laymyself out to the tepid peace of every day,the docile afternoons, the wide and naturalsleep, no longer opposed to the climatethat equal and still caresses me instead– the cl…
- A turkey-oak two hundred years old nowno one has pollarded. Beneath itthere live vipers – woody elbows acheagainst the back. And one nightupon the roots, you rebelled, and with such violenceas to rema…
- in the wind they sowed their long phrases– like scarves they'd wave in the wind – the wind ripped many scarves by chanceand carried them away in frayed cloud shapes – the poet always scatters her word…