The common day

A poppy is squeezed in the bus seats
between mine and the wall;
below the engine a hoard of music,
the work men eat their masks freeing their
the work women tired of the sound without marvel;

Artemis flicks her ash on the ground,
the hares pour out from my body in the fields
the swearing moors of absolom black,
stretching the village like tattoos made of rain,
the rum falling sky has deserted the streets,
the good nights are myths, the bad nights are mortal.


is Raoul Moat in a boat. His first words were ‘Newky Brown’. As well as being our most prolific writer, René also creates graphic art, paintings and screenplays.

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