Monday, 5 March 2018

A poem by Roddy Williams


I think I would like to die in July
but not this year, not just yet, not so soon.
July is a pause at the apex of joy
before the swandive to Morrissey world.
So if I must die I’ll die in July
while the sky’s filled with rolling Simpsons clouds
and trees on heat are Mexican-waving;

when the air is treacly and dormant,
not keen to move itself out of the way
and light is sluggish, clinging to the
undersides of leaves slipping downhill at
dusk to sleep as day dissolves into night
sticky with promises of a naked moon
perhaps, to dance me through the last few days.

Originally from North Wales, Roddy Williams lives and works in London. His poetry has appeared in 'Smiths Knoll'. 'Magma', 'The North', 'The Frogmore Papers', 'The Rialto', 'Envoi' and other magazines. He is a keen surrealist photographer, printmaker and painter.