John Whitworth

I was nervous as a child though now I’m not.I used to dream. I used to dream a lot.I don’t dream now. My dreaming days are done. So I’m sitting in the room that is my life.In the shadows are my children and my wife.At the window is a person with a gun, And he’s writing with his finger in the . . . . Continue Reading »

The brethren walk about in hatsAnd up they go and down they go.The brethren’s hats are black as bats,Their faces are as white as snow,And up they go and down they go.Amen amen they say and thenThey turn their faces to the wall.As if they were not there at allThey turn their faces to the wall.They . . . . Continue Reading »

Evenings are when I like to talk to God.I wait all day to watch till He goes by.I wonder is it me and am I odd?I see the sky and God is in the sky.My garden is a special place for God.I have my garden friend, a secret one.We are as like as two peas in a podI see the sun and God is in the sunI read a . . . . Continue Reading »

When I go walking on the street My Guardian Angel walks behind. I hear the rustling of his feet. I feel the movement of his mind. His heart is mine. I hear it beat. My heart is his and he is kind. I hear the rustling of his feet. I feel the whirring of his wings. Be still my soul, my body sings, Be . . . . Continue Reading »

When I go walking on the street My Guardian Angel walks behind. I hear the rustling of his feet. I feel the movement of his mind. His heart is mine. I hear it beat. My heart is his and he is kind. I hear the rustling of his feet. I feel the whirring of his wings. Be still my soul, my body sings, Be . . . . Continue Reading »

Your Dad is bad, your Mum is mad,Your brothers all run wild,And you were born with feet of horn,For you are Satan’s child. The fairies stole your soul at birthAnd stashed it God-knows-where.You are the wretched of the earth,Past pity and past care. The fairies stole away your soulAnd smashed it on . . . . Continue Reading »

The dead lie in their linen, white as chalk, Their noses, lips and eyes are sewn tight shut, But they can look about them well enough. And smell, and breathe, and, Lord, how they can . . . . Continue Reading »

Where are the Gods that used to walk the Weald, Where are their golden limbs and fiery faces, Divinities of river, tree and field, The uncommon spirits of the common places? Where are the gaudy Goddesses of . . . . Continue Reading »

It is Spring and the young Are all falling in love. It is Spring and the tongue Of the poet is free. Now Winter is shut Like a snake in a box With the shriek of the owl And the yelp of the fox. Now Winter withdraws To his palace of bones, With a clanging of doors And a grinding of stones. And . . . . Continue Reading »

Listen, your changeling children are swinging like monkeys, Hand-over-hand through the leaves of the trees of the forest, Hugging and kissing and swinging and laughing and singing Wishes like wings as they flutter and float to the ground. Feral and faery and wary, the wraiths of your children, . . . . Continue Reading »