Two poems by Tom Moody

Playing with Fire In childhood, summer fires would sweep the mineral line, bringing the local brigade bell-clanging down our road. Whooping in their wake a comet tail of kids.   In those days of steam a stoker’s fag-end ash, a stray glead, could easily kindle the straw-dry grass. With snapped Elder branch, or a borrowed … Continue reading Two poems by Tom Moody