Tag Archives: Mark Connors

Haibun for Laycock

Mist rises from the graveyard. All the dead talk at once in this rime dusk. It climbs the gable end of a Wesleyan Chapel, makes it not there, floats between cottages down a ginnel framed by dry-stone walls to join … Continue reading

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Haiku

March winds play with gravity: snow returns to sky. Flakes rise like white fireflies. Mark Connors is a poet and novelist from Leeds, United Kingdom. His poems have appeared in magazines, ezines and anthologies in the United Kingdom and USA, … Continue reading

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Weird angel

You’re a weird angel; tone-deaf, without wings. If you sing for your supper, you’ll go to bed hungry. Karaoke? Don’t make me laugh – you’d be bottled off unless protected by chicken wire. Simon Cowell would have you killed if … Continue reading

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inishmore

On Inishmore the high tide sprays where shining periwinkles graze and satisfy their appetites on lichens orange, green and white, shimmering in dawn’s sun rays. This shoreline knows the wrath of days, what winds and seas and skies erase; time … Continue reading

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Sanna

And when the sun comes out at Sanna the vertebrae of Eigg reveals itself and the peaks of Rum and Muck rise up, as if the earth’s plates time their fierce collisions with the black clouds rolling back so the … Continue reading

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What Loneliness Sounds Like

and there’s little to see in these slow dark hours but I listen let music of a sort explain: the distant mournful wail of a freight train the sad staccato buzz of a neon sign the laboured trudge of a … Continue reading

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