A Savage Dream

I had a savage dream of destinations:
A ten-foot fence, barbed, and on the wire
Bones and the rags of prisoners. I had
This dream, and woke in the cool English air.

For My Father

I learn the dead wear shoes.
Their beards cast a last shadow.
Kissing your face,
I’m troubled by the roughness
As when you came to tuck me up,
Brushed my cheek with yours
And tip-toed out.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN


Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences