POEM David Foster-Morgan

NWR Issue 109


These sons are something, out on the autumn promenade,
hollow eyes full of horizons, they should be something;
something suit, shirt, tie, they really are something;
it’s time by their something watches. Fatter now,
their faces, something tans, simplify to silhouettes...

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David Foster-Morgan lives and works in Cardiff,. His poetry has appeared extensively in journals over the last ten years, most notably Poetry Wales. His first collection, Masculine Happiness, is due from Seren this autumn.


previous poem: Trigonometry in Las Vegas
next poem: The Entertainer


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