Augustus Young       light verse, poetry and prose
a webzine of new and unpublished work

Nine Ways of Thinking About My Mother

Though my hair’s in despair
when caught out in the rain
hatless, I don’t complain.
Je pense à ma mére
When knocked in the gutter
by a white van, the bike
and my bones feel alright
if I think of my mother.
When amour-propre rears
at a slight to my pride
so to put it aside
je pense à ma mére
When someone or other
throws mud in my face
I wipe it off with good grace.
And think of my mother.
When I sulk in my lair
of petty resentments
to come to my senses
je pense à ma mére.
When I lose my rudder
and the boat’s in a spin
I’m glad I can swim.
It was thanks to my mother.
When no one seems to care
whether I live or die
I look to the sky…
Je pense à ma mére
When people think I’m a nutter,
and they aren’t far wrong,
I whistle a sad song,
and think of my mother.
When hells-fires declare
themselves, and I’m going down in flames,
I hear a voice say ‘James’
je pense à ma mére


The sea is at a loss.
It’s always on retreat.
The land remains a wish.
But break-water on moss
balms the palms of my feet.
I tread softly on starfish.

Nature Vivante

After the rains the fragrance of laurel rose reigns,
incense to bless the overflowing drains
so they grow watercress.
O cuckoo flowers, so white, so light
your hour’s twilight: lightening the air
as waters clear.
Milkmaid-blossoms, shyly in the shade,
the slightest breath of wind
and they’re off.
Verlaine and Van Gogh in cahoots
not to draw them from life, wield their pen and knife
after removing wet boots.

Tour de Horizon

What  is on the horizon
puts matters in perspective
As soon as it comes it’s gone
It cannot be detected.
The skyline is a lie line,
a moving target you’ve got
in your sights only in time
to know you have missed the shot. 
I’ve nothing to say about
the point blank as the blink
at the whistle-stop blanks out.
A structuralist could think
around it and fabricate
the cliff edge’s conceptual leap
in the dark, and thus create
conturbations in the deep.
Those that lack a point of view
and  don’t see beyond their nose
don’t suffer the ennui
of living with a suppose. 
Deconstruct, the wise posit,
until you have a surface
with not a ripple on it  
save the clouds above that race. 

Stellar Connection

The stars make their point
in the sky, anoint
space with light and time,
so they become mine
as almost nothing.
And so worlds within
include me. I bring
them down to earth with
a blink to inhabit
the unthinkable.  

St Sun  

Day is done.
A weird
ochre cloud
the disappearing
it with a ring
of light. Hallo,