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Poetry by Milner Place 

Milner Place lives in Huddersfield, England.  His 7th poetry collection, Caminante, is his most recent work - released by Wrecking Ball Press (  He has also written The City of Flowers, Piltdown Man and Batwoman, In A Rare Time of Rain, etc.




© 2004 Milner Place





hello this winter wind it suits

the mood

now I can light the fire turn on

soft music

hear the hiss of wavelets slide

on sand

summon the palms to bend

in dance

music that walks cloud shadows

on the sea


then she stumbles to the shore


smiles her mermaid smile

to stand

and shake her auburn hair

to catch

and glorify the sun her skin


silvered eyes as clean

as dawn


no time to laze sun-soaking

on the beach

the schooner swings to anchor

in the bay

the petrels skim far out at sea


for the ship to spread her wings


for the deep blue pastures

of the seals


the dolphin-striker carving waves


humming strumming of reef-points

on sails

hull plunging while white water creams


the squeal of blocks the thrum

of stays

wild music magic of a tumbling



night as warm as a shepherd's


stars winking in and out of clouds


a moon that sits up on the gaff


that breaks when flying fish


their element to glide above

the waves


the fire burns low the cold

creeps in

fog covers all the sea

the music

plays a winter tune of icicles

and bells

that toll like thunder rolls

in snow

-filled clouds her auburn hair

is grey







A blind night,

no eyes up there,

no wings.


So to remembering,

voices, faces, touches,

fear and the breaking

of blood-red days,

silences, cold, clean,

music of aeolian harps,

(some of those winds

smelling of violence)

indifferent seas.


Sawdust bars and wicked wine,

coarse perfume, solid stench

of  poverty that wears a grin,

a heritage no advertiser vaunts,

but you and I, compadre, know

the essence of the bonds

that bind all those

who cried: 'no pasaran'.


A cold dawn,

in the stillness sings

the mocking of a bird,

an anvil rings.





Once upon a time


Tonight the clock runs slow,

the pulse of time is weak,

so to turn, to slither back

through sombre years and mist

and fog of shadow lands until

the sun breaks through to light

where spray of ocean celebrates

beneath the cliffs where perch

the gallinazos, condors soar,

flowers peek among grey bones.

There the ocean rolls in dreams

of floating in the blue on winds,

of crystal ice, mountain streams,

of rolling pebbles into sands.




Something in the wind


There's sadness in this wind,

the puny sighs, even the spit of rain

dries as it hits the stones. Its voice

is hoarse, it whispers of long travelling

and now can barely stir the leaves.

Its clouds are shredded by the sun,

could hardly mist a mirror, hold

no memories of how it roared,

beat on the ocean, tore palm trees

from their shading of white sands,

the roofs from heads of houses,

howling with wrath and raging round

its cyclops eye, now closed. Today

its death song's drowned by bees.


previous poetry


All work is copyrighted property of Milner Place.



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