Two poems by Patrick Davidson Roberts


    The Train


The concern, unspoken amongst us, was whether goodwill would hold.
We’d been on the road for weeks; children walking
alongside the wagons until they fell
and were thrown on top.

Last Monday, however, we made landfall. The ridge achieved
and this small place found. We pitched at the river.
The days spread out and the nerves grew softer:
perhaps they would let us stay.

Too much to hope. This morning we found the red mess of a cat,
clumped in break and blood, waiting by the fire.
We were miles off by ten, when John caught up with us,
the wet knife in his belt and the smoke rising behind him.




We pulled the blind down but left
a slit of open window for you to
duck to and poke the cigarette through.
You slid up to the centimetre of air:
a diver going above at last.
From behind you I saw
this brilliant woman, this brilliant beautiful woman
escaping the surface disaster on water;
raising a hollow reed through
the gap in the window.


Patrick Davidson Roberts

About Patrick Davidson Roberts

Patrick Davidson Roberts was born in 1987 and grew up in Sunderland and Durham. He was editor of 'The Next Review' magazine 2013 – 2017, and is a contributing editor to The Poetry Archive, as well as co-founder and co-editor of Offord Road Books ( In 2016 he was nominated for the Melita Hume Prize. His debut collection 'The Mains' was published in 2018 by Vanguard Editions. He lives and works in London.