These are a selection of Graham Jones's poems - he's chosen his favourites 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