Author: john keast

A tug strains, its rubber nose crushed Its stern dips The port is waking A chain clangs There, the hipped roof of a warehouse, a vast repository for wool The windows are broken; there is no wool Giant red brick buildings face the sea – Royal Insurance declares its case One building is six storeys:…

Long windows set in stone, two up and two down. This building stands apart in a village notable for despair: the streets are empty and wide, made for horse, carriage, the drover’s dog. A small park  circled by iron, houses cling to life. And those windows, where spiders crawl and weave. Inside, tapping – an…

Crab-legs of rock guard this little bay. It is a half-smile where seabirds ride the inshore swell. It is home to stork and squawking gull, and on the rocky shore oyster catchers’ red daggers prise out creatures that squirm in the sand. The basalt here is caked, split by sun and wave. When it is…

The farmer is between desperation and sadness There is no moisture left It was drawn out on the wind or taken by heat The grass lost its sheen and then its colour It dried and fluttered in the wind Then it broke The soil can not support itself; it is loose and without form If…

He will not go out again. His bed now is his chair. There is no need to rise or prepare for slumber. It comes readily, the lids lower on the day before a dim screen. It was not meant to be like this, breath searching for a way in and out He will not eat…

No one goes up Old Gig Road. It leads to a siding. Rotted timber hangs over its edge. A century ago, women in bonnets alighted. A rail track curled up from the town. There was a stationmaster, smart in black. He wore a waistcoat, a watch on a chain. Much was planned: a town, great…

The hat is where he left it He is not in the field The years have passed I still expect a work-rough hand to take it from its peg, to check the red feather in its band Its poor brim is bent down He pulled at it in habit – wore it in rain and…

The river here bends on itself It sprawls on gravel, tumbles on log and stick It is at the end of its run It has come through gorge and shingle fan; it breaks around the skinny legs of birds, then deepens as the braids conjoin Now it is not a river, but a slow deep…

He was from a farm which promised much and delivered little It sat in the low hills inland from the coast, all shadows and bullrush and dripping gullies A four-room home – two at the back, two in the front and hardly a chair on which to sit They were, he said, poor in all but…

A great concrete arm reaches into the sea It controls its temper A swell surges at it and spray floats It gives no ground In its lee fishing boats sit low They roll and tip, pastel sides dipping Children swim to a pontoon – a collie, too, his coat a furrow of black and white…

A hawk in a fence clawing the air   A river surge over stone   Frost bleed from a stone face   An old man’s hands shake as he sought to speak   An old woman rise from a wheelchair   A young woman confronted with truth   The rotting wheel of a wool wagon…

You hold many in icy folds Old and young frozen in limb and boot; anguish, surprise locked for time Those who conquer rejoice; those who fail you keep Your stone face betrays no emotion Axe or rope will be of no use when my face darkens