Monday, 26 August 2013

A poem by Martin Malone


POOR TOM

Took me three hours or so to notice,
then the tinkle of bells on his Xmas cap
gave him away; as he shifted his weight
and stretched out under the duvet.

I suppose I ought to have been grateful
that he’d not marked out his territory.
Too idle – is my guess – to get off his arse
and spray into each corner of the room.

It was the fool’s gold of his eyes
I saw first; peering out from under
as I torched the bedspace to see.
Impassive for the most part but whicked

with downfall all the same: that sense
of the heath, that chill in his bones. 




Born in 1963 in West Hartlepool, Martin Malone now lives in Warwickshire. A winner of the 2011 Straid Poetry Award and the 2012 Mirehouse Prize , his first full collection - The Waiting Hillside- is published by Templar Poetry. Currently studying for a Ph.D in poetry at Sheffield University, he edits The Interpreter's House poetry journal.

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