Skip to main content


Showing posts from October, 2008

Edward Hughes: poetry...truth & lies


After a time,
(Some 19 years or so),
I asked him,
And straight out,
If we had a relationship.
He denied it flatly.
I went on loving him the more.

Edward Hughes


Where are all those things?
I can't remember.
Still, I have the symbols.
What were those things like?
We were not acquainted,
But I painted pictures.
How many of those things were there?
I reach for the matchbox.
What could those things mean?
We need to talk.
What about?
Squiggles, daubs, and matchsticks.
What about those things?
I lost them long ago.

Edward Hughes


When Mother died there was an absence.
It wasn't her;
Mum's still a fixture
In many a memory,
Each sharper than mine.
Her's was a life taken
In its unsuspecting flow,
Before appropriate time.
This yawning gap
Served as a warning:
Fickle fullness leads not to resolution;
Everything must some day drain.
I now look for lightness,
Not light.
I'm eyeshut to fleeting image,
Immune to all experience,
And ready to discharge any ballast.
I'll keep…