Tag Archives: blank verse



The season’s turning now. Late summer’s long-held breath

is finally exhaled. Now autumn’s alchemy

has seeped its way inside the trees to turn their leaves

to copper, bronze and gold. The sky’s no longer blue;

its cobalt wash is painted out with layers of grey.

The wind blows cooler, damper, stronger from the sea.

The river’s high and brown, and summer’s dusty paths

have turned to muddy tracks. The scent of wood smoke drifts

inside from down the street. We stack logs on the porch.

I find it strange to think that half a world away

the season’s turning too; that where I once called home

the spring is breezing in, and kissing grey to green.


(C) Helen Lewis, 2006 



(or Love in a Library)


On Monday

I got lost between Religion

and Metaphysics.

You hacked through Botany

to rescue me.


On Tuesday

I teetered on the kick step

in Literature and rhetoric

while you offered up a serenade

of Italian poetry.


On Wednesday

I said maybe Library relationships

weren’t such a good idea.

You said you appreciated

Satire and humour.


On Thursday I expounded

Platonic philosophy.

You said you were pinning your hopes on

Organic chemistry.


You spent the whole of Friday in

Argument and persuasion.

By the end of the day I’d

succumbed to your Magnetism.


On Saturday we forgot all about Ethics.

We spent the morning in Social interaction,

indulging in Public relations.


(C) Helen Lewis 2009


heavy rain –

shaded by cherry blossoms

I wait


Kobayashi Issa



He’s waiting in the garden by the cherry tree

he planted, taking shelter from the rain beneath

its blossom-heavy boughs. White gravel fans around

his feet like ripples on the surface of a pond.


He smiles. A drop of water trickles down his neck.

I trace the snaking path it follows with my tongue,

breathe in his musky sweat, and feel the throb of blood

beneath his suntanned skin. His hands grip tightly round


my shoulders; ease me back. While raindrops cool my cheeks

his tongue inflames my lips, my breasts, my inner thighs.

I gasp and welcome in the hot, hard feel of him.

Somewhere a temple bell is ringing. So am I.


And later, as I hurry home, rehearsing my

excuses, tying up my obi sash, for just

a moment I look back. He stoops and once again

begins to rake the gravel into perfect arcs.


© Helen Lewis 2006

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