These are a selection of Graham Jones's poems

he's chosen his favorites for you. 

Please enjoy reading them. 


Here, amongst the memories,

laughing with the ghosts,

we found ourselves. In that room,

eating thinly sliced salmon,

drinking Frascati;

falling in love, Carelessly,

before the apple wood fire,

touching each other,

our hearts throbbing the rhythm;

lovers throbbing the rhythm,

that drew us closer

to the memories and the ghosts,

The Echo is the Music

The faded flowery paper

wrapped around the memories,

like the early morning mist

on Cley marshes. Love echoed

from wall to wall, and outward,

impregnating all it touched.

The warmth of a robin's nest,

carefully made and nurtured.

Hands wiped away tears, lips smiled,

and words took on the sweetness

of gold September sunshine,

filled us with hope and belief.

Euterpe, return me to that room;

The echo is the music

and I dance its tune.

The Flowers

The flowers that I gave you,

Sweet Peas, as a thank you,

that filled the Sylvac vase

and the room with fragrance;

did you not understand,

they were purchased with care,

to show that I love you,

not because they were cheap?


You say our home tells us who we are;

The Laura Ashley curtains and three piece suite;

Your mother’s Sylvac vase;

the prints of boats at Blakney.

Icons of your life.

I say our home's a prison; a final resting place,

where the I becomes the we and dies.

You light the fire,

close the door,

glow in the warmth;

feel secure and safe.

I close the door and weep

for the lost hope

of a suffocated dream.

The Masonic Pipe

Fashioned from tacky clay

by hand and fire

tobacco stained yellow;

Surviving a century.

hidden in a

Masonic smoking room.

Knowing the secret way

of contentment

through puffing tobacco.

Modern mason still smokes

but now hashish

to find the mystical.

It was slow

Slow as a winter raindrop

sliding down the window.

Slow as an autumn leaf

drifting on the breeze.

Slow as a spring primrose

pushing upwards

Slow as the summer sun

falling on a spiders web.

Slow, but insidious,

from gentle to fierce,

wrapped in tenderness,

love grew.

The night is silent.

Owls conspire

to hush the darkness.

The harvest moon

plays hide and seek

with the wrack clouds.

Stars scatter

through the universe,

spread by a mad

Victorian fiddler.

The ancient Yew,

casts the shadows

of the ghosts

of a thousand years.

Moonbeams sneak

through the latticed window;

dance mischievously

over the oaken floor,

exciting the dust.

Do you remember that room?

Lit by candles. We supped

on fresh caught salmon,

poached in wine and fennel.

Drank Frascati and spoke

the language of love.

We touched hands and feet,

laughed and giggled,

for no obvious reason,

our eyes were bright

and searching.

But now, the night is silent.

Owls conspire to hush the darkness.

The moon, again, plays hide and seek,

but the clouds win; the oaken floor

is dark; the dust searches

for the moonbeams in silence.

Only the eerie shadows of the yew

remain to taunt and tease

the memories.

Pembroke Cheese

We bought cheese in Pembroke;

it seemed right and proper.

it promised so much.

The cheese maker told us

it would last for an age

- mature, as we matured.

And it did, and we ate it with relish,

and chutney and mustard

and Bara Brith.

Soon the cheese was gone

and forgotten. We returned

to Wensleydale, mixed with blueberries

from Sainsbury's but somehow,

it was not the same!

She’s the woman...

She’s the woman in the picture in the attic

She’s the lover in Keats’ Grecian Urn

She makes you chuckle she makes you smile

She’s got poise and she’s got style

She can set a room alight

By her presence on the night

She softens her eyes and flicks her hair

There’s nothing common, she’s so very rare

She’s the woman in the picture in the attic