Chela creative area
Silas Jones
He was a small man, belted gabardine raincoat
and thirteen languages tucked around his person.
A fine hand disciplined: copper plate, italic,
sharp steel nib, dipped in iron blue ink,
smooth, white paper that crackled when folded.
Even in an unknown tongue it could be enjoyed
each word soaking in to the hand that stroked it.
One grey day I looked for Silas Jones
but all I found was a mist of languages
drifting in the Welsh air.
© Anthony Fisher June 2009
Poetry by Anthony Fisher
From My Restaurant Window High in Dubai
The Terrace
A Septic Tank Addresses ACUF
At the Pictures
Brimsdown
Musings at a Urinal in Dubai
Silas Jones
The New Inn
Dusk Maes Mawr Farm
Poetry by Valerie Darville
You longed for the Sea
Do Cats Have Ethics?
Dubai Beach
Sonnet: Fashion Victims
The Silver Fish
Jacob
Strawberries for Fish
The Road to Fujairah
The Bay Hotel, Lyme Regis, Halloween 2000
Kentucky Fried Chicken in Georgia USA
Quill
Lavoir de Semier
