By Dick Jones


The morning after you left I drew

the curtains on the seven acre field.


Two hares were bowling through the stubble,

wind-blown, skidding like broken wheels.


They danced and sprung apart and danced again

and then were gone, beyond the tidemark


of the tree line. Then a mob of seagulls

swung downwind from the west, scattered,


gathered again in a brawl of wings and then

were gone, into a bleak neutrality


of towering clouds. Love or combat, the wind

blew them into the world and out again,


these dancers, bound only to the end

of their measures and not beyond.





Initially wooed by the First World War poets & then seduced by the Beats, Dick Jones has been exploring the vast territories in between since the age of 15.  Fitfully published in a variety of magazines throughout the years of rambling, grand plans for the meisterwerk have been undermined constantly either by a Much Better Idea or a sort of Chekhovian inertia. So Dick Jones has no prize collection to his name; he has masterminded no radical creative writing programmes in a cutting edge university department; he has edited no recherché poetry magazines with lower case titles.  However, work has been published in a number of magazines, print and online, including Orbis, The Interpreter’s House, Poetry Ireland Review, Qarrtsiluni, Westwords, Mipoesias, Three Candles, Other Poetry, Rattlesnake and Ouroboros Review.

As daily occupation he does the school run, the shopping and the cleaning while his partner earns the money. And for fun and modest profit he plays bass guitar and percussion in a folk roots-and-shoots trio.


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