This evening’s clouds capture

The private imperative of prayer.

The impossible confluence

Of sky, water in air.


There is something in them of us-

Our bending toward silent speech.

Bearing at an event horizon,

To each, an ever-escaping purchase.


Cordite, rain and oilseed rape.

The shrill train, the rolling voice.

The city is that way- this,

The village. Past tense.


Oh I would lie among

The field’s cool stalks

And listen for you along

The branch continuum.



John Regan  is a Glaswegian living in Cambridge, where he is a research fellow in aesthetics, historiography at Clare Hall. He believes that poetry should be spoken aloud.