Christopher Woodall Poems

When a man stands on the edge of the moor
Receiving the wind’s rough investiture
Of all that power which remains extant
From the creation of air, sea and land
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Novus Actus Interveniens


My time; I naively believe
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The buses leave at dawn, with protest songs
On the lips of the old and young alike,
Returning in warm numb silence at night
On the eve of revolution. The throngs
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The persuasive bespoke oligarchs
Leer earnestly from the screen,
While drowning in their rabid barks
We dress as in a dream:
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I lie resting half into the sand
And she pulses against me
As softly as the edge of the sea
Envelopes the edge of the land;
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A man in London and damp skies up here
Declare rain and storm; a dark wave rears up
But the blow does not fall. My footsteps veer
Into alleyways of a mildewed look.
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The hills will wander in their time
Over the bones of men
Who once when suited thought it fine
To booted walk on them;
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If like a broken plate we lie apart
I dream my dream, she reads her magazine,
A narrow passage opens up between
Two unforgiving coastlines. The long chart
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There was a shed I never saw
In a corner, spider-ridden,
When I came in the night to seduce you.
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My girl with her blue eyes in the night
Stares with the passivity of Scottish mountains
And the urgency of emergency light;
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