Spring of Words

There is an easy pleasure

in the play of words.

I hadn’t understood.

Just as the acrobat must

leap and tumble without a show,

bright lights or no,

I must play; and even when

I’ve nothing wise to say.

Just as I strum and smile.

Just as I sometimes jump

across the road and back.

Just as I flee the mundane

with a needless pun.

It is okay to be the little button,

little purpose, little done.



High Summer

When morning dandelions to the strolling sun,

the softness of bog cotton is its song.

When midday hums, the heather joins,

and sings of happiness for light-eyed fun.

When afternoon is dressed and kilted,

strides, a master-tailor’s whistling son,

it courts the lovers, winks and wins each one.



What Now?

Sometime today,

I’ll ravish you.

Perhaps downstairs,   

perhaps in the garden

disturbing the orchids,

with one eye on the path, in case.

Sometime today,

you’ll laugh at me,

saying 'what now?'

in that voice of pretend surprise,

your favourite

when I do something right.

Sometime today,

we’ll pause and re-adjust,

wondering why we didn’t

wait for late at night,  

for the comfortable bed,

just like our parents didn’t.


Seth Crook taught philosophy at various universities before moving to the Hebrides. He does not like cod philosophy in poetry, but he does like cod, philosophy and poetry. He was inspired to write after a long illness and hasn’t stopped since. His work has recently appeared or is about to appear in Other Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, SnakeskinThe Journal, Antiphon, The Centrifugal Eye, Message in a Bottle and Northwords Now.

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