If a poet finds a small slab of marble outside of a country inn it is likely that he will carve his muse before the

The light that occurs under piers disturbs me as I find the wasted shot of battleships rusting beneath my feet    

Nicol – Pavratelli looked out of the window that faced the bay. His model sat lazily in the soft chair almost asleep The artist had

The red dress that Nora was wearing as she walked towards the Church was blue but as the young lady was colour blind she considered

James Joyce Priestland counted the lorries as they passed his house but always hid when the blue ones passed   his mother would inform him

I died in Peru and was buried in Somerset but my heart lies in Normandy    

Near the Castle Corfu There is a wood Which caters for The Spanish abroad I have rewired their public cemeteries A boy named Genesis Made

As they drank from their upturned saucers The generals wept The battle was lost I carved into the sands Of the country That was no

Was regarded by many As the flower of his age He lies in happy immortality With his virtuous wife And affectionate brother Quite forgotten  

Preston 1922 We all sat in naked In the Tibor Tea Rooms Eating scones and cream Nobody cared as we were artists And this poem