Rod Riesco, born 1949 in London, has gradually moved northward and now lives in Lancashire. He works full-time as a freelance translator and spends as much time as possible on poetry. Furthermore he is the secretary of Bank Street Writers, Boston. His latest collection (pamphlet) Familiar Machines was published in Wilderswood Press, 2002.

Quelle: poetry p f

Lines

Love will be slow then
as girders crossing blue water.
The boy
in the corner of the carriage

clicking his beer can
will freeze. A change will adopt us
like snow
on the tail of mauve April rain

slipping soft fingers
into the workings of hawthorn,
the gears
of daffodils. As dreams, we are

unseasonable,
chilled into a locked van. This train
derailed,
its spine dragged to oblivion.

Pillars fall for ever,
fail to find ground. We have grown
into
our suspense: a bridge of dissolve.

There is no jumping
from this span. On the flat of the
bell curve
we maintain our notes, hold the chord.

published in Brando's Hat, No. 9, 2000