Dugald Williamson



Poem in winter

The woods and all within; in a dream, I saw my father there. We remembered our embrace. I thanked him for the bookshelves. His face lit up: no verse is antique, and I think you’re a student as deft as …

Posted in 114: NO THEME 13 | Tagged

The lost poem

It had a sense of presence, of solidarity in light’s embrace, despite the blind-folding, the winding drive, the tuning-up of crowded Tehran streets dissonant in cupped glass; then voices only, interrogation, an art-form of power where everything fits, as in …

Posted in 102: GAME | Tagged