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After more than twenty years in Italy, France and Poland, Ian Seed currently writes and teaches in Lancashire. His poems have recently appeared in Aught, Dream Catcher, Fire, Exhultationsanddifficulties, Great Works, New Hope International, The Penniless Press, and Stride Magazine.  



The tenderness we grew ashamed of. Discomfort the prime force in our moving. Make of it what you will, we walked through the forest until we saw the city shining on the other side of the river, the gathering of nerves at hand, night streams whispered into one world. We waited, hooked to the bottom of a winter past, happy anyway to play along, a fine time to be had by all. A letter was hammered to each door. Knowledge was stilled to the effect of coming together.




I was not at home and will not be. Only to speak from the recesses of my mind, and it had better be good, she added, the white sugar in her lifted spoon stained with old tea, willing perfectly to crumble that destiny hoisted on us by a metaphysics unmentionable at the best of times. The winter boys hung around, hard put to find a different way to say the same thing, the death toll of a time when people were grateful for a decent cuppa. We got off our knees though the message had not reached us as expected, not by a long chalk. Folk gathered on the village green at night. They had their own way of letting us know what they wanted.





watched from the dark landing

she leans in the doorway

your coat on her shoulders

sleeves limp against the streetís

yellow light


the coat falls away

she has grown young and

beautiful overnight


the doorway is empty

coat twisted in shadows

curtains flicker in the darkness

of a window left open





Next to me now

in the dark

flesh and skin



and bone

and between each



the silence

of her heart







copyright © Ian Seed