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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


I have composed
so many odes to weather,
to the decline of winter,
autumn’s death,
the pathways of summer,
holocaust and fury.
A sailor’s history of seasons,
advent of storms on the horizon,
etchings of glass,
the magnetic attraction of air,
forms of life
omnipresent in rooms and gardens.

But turning the pages
of earth’s diary,
I looked for life and death,
love songs,
standing out from repetition.
And found nothing to say
about weather,
to give to someone else.
Except to the dear one
who will bury me,
note the weather,
and say to the diggers
ready to cover my box,
the weather’s never right
for a funeral,
but it will be better tomorrow.

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