Poetry Blog by Tom Harding

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entry picture

The old man in the window seat

is setting quietly to his routine,

folding up the sleeves

of his Oxford shirt inch by inch

until the sun falls across his bare arms


then with just a smile

he signals to the waitress and waits

watching the hushed street

after the morning rush:

a mother with a pram,

a homeless man conferring with his dog,

a few pigeons plucking


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Love Poem

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Despite what they say

the mind is more

reckless than the heart,

ready to climb aboard

any passing distraction,

waving over it’s shoulder at you

as it stands you up at this table

staring vacantly at the waitress

with the red headband

but it could have just as easily been

the old man in the corner

eating chocolate ice cream alone

or for that matter

the dog ...

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Ant Poem

entry picture

It wouldn’t surprise me
if some of this number
making their way
past our resting elbows
are beginning to lose faith,
what with summer wind 
gusting so wildly 
through the long grass,
sounding like a sea 
preparing to part itself.
What's to stop one or two
falling behind the rest?
Forsaking the promise 
of what may come
to idle away this earthly afternoon
sheltering in the shade 

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Cafe Window

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How beautiful

to become aware of yourself existing

to wake to the tiny pleasure

of a warm brioche

and cup of coffee, interrupted only

from the paper’s bad news

by the brief commotion of

a woman in yellow

losing her scarf to the breeze,

startling the realisation from you

that such a moment maybe everything;

a quiet cup of coffee

on a breezy morning in spring


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Development Plan

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When my line manager

asks me about my development plan

and where I see myself

in one, three or five years time


I begin to think how in a year

I would like to be painting watercolours

beside a mountain stream

somewhere in the Bavarian Alps


in three years eating cantaloupe

and drinking black coffee

on an early morning

in a European city I don't yet kn...

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This Morning

entry picture

Watching your turned back disappear

this morning, head stooped

beneath the black omen of your umbrella

ferrying you towards your day,

we parted as though in different streams

of the same dark river,

I began to think about those physicists

who would have us believe

there are infinite versions of ourselves,

going this way and that,

carried like scattered blossom


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entry picture

There are places colder and darker than this,

right now in Oslo, Reykjavik,

they’re waking too,

presing cold feet to the floor,

pulling on icy underwear,

peering into dim mirrors

to begin the search for their outside selves.


No doubt a few will be sat just as I am

peering light headedly into the gloom

to unpick the world’s

smallest knot from their shoes.



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Someone To Watch Over Me

entry picture

The future is dark,
our days are numbered,
there will be a last time for everything
given all things are finite
and the news the universe 
is expanding eleven percent faster than expected
as if wishing to hasten it's own demise.
Look at everyone on this dark afternoon,
hunched over these little round tables
like mourners at a funeral 
for our collective future,
the barmaid staring on th...

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