One Poem by Phil Wood

Mum’s old watering can

There’s no dawn chorus.
Too urban. Too much meow.

We water the herbs:
a swaying fennel,
that ever eager mint,
the pot of thyme.

A robin’s rambling along/above/beside
not furtive, feisty. Streetwise.

Perhaps the family dish later,
a cawl: lamb, potatoes, carrots.
No allotments now. Just driveways.

We will water the thorny bush,
and that stubborn fern,
and those annoying weeds.

We will water the dusk
to find a chorus.
Wild things. Feathered gods. Songs.


Phil Wood was born in Wales. He works in a statistics office, enjoys playing with numbers and words. He has previously worked in Education, Shipping, and a biscuit factory. Most of all he enjoys the seaside.

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