Freedom

Amongst bits of pot
A solid cylinder of roots.
Outside the prison



Memory

Between the blades
of an old mower
tangled grass grows



Thieves

When we were burgled, we hid
and argued about whose cds, books and furniture
were being stolen.
We heard them going through every room -
yet not ours.
They knew we were there,
as we knew they were there -
a kind of awkward deal had been struck.
Eventually, we dared to leave our room
and saw that those two thieves
had left us with nothing.



About the author:
Tristan Moss lives in Sheffield, where he works as an English language teacher. His writing has appeared in Mytholog and Smokelong. He can be contacted at tristanmoss@hotmail.co.uk.

© 2011 Word Riot