All the footprints in the snow
led me to your grave,
iron-cold February
blowing your ghost
across the Pennines

A murder of crows
cawed in the oaks as
I stole a thorn
from the solitary rose-bush
rooted in your bones

Drove it into my arm
sealing our poets’ pact

Patrik Gryst (Nom de Plume)


Night’s crowded with cars
Surfing the roads,
Sinister with strangers
Dressed in black

Night lurks,
Chasing itself
A manic midnight bird

Night’s sleepless with insomniacs
Burning at both ends,
Rumbling with trains –
Lickety-cut, lickety-cut

Night slinks through gardens,
Prowls light-footed –
A stealthy enigmatic cat

Night’s full moon
Rides the tide,
Night’s empty with pockets
Turned inside out

Night’s doors bolted shut
After milk-bottles out,
Night’s sush of curtains closed
After lights snuffed black

Night watches –
Waits to catch me out
Posing puzzles
I can never solve

Patrik Gryst (Nom de Plume)


Me told ya him was gonna come… me told ya! Ya thought me was telling lies…spinning yarns…ya tried brush me aside…but me told ya!

Ya was in ya usual place…an him time were right…one day close to da next…midnight…ya drinking an laughing…an having a right merry time. An dem was laughing wid ya…rolling about when ya telling jokes an impressing folk wid ya deeds about all dem women…an all dat money ya got…so ya didn’t notice a ting…him caught ya off guard…cause me watch ya and tell him.

Him sneaky-sneak inta da room…yeah sure ya notice da chill in da air…ya did feel him breath on ya neck…dem didn’t notice a ting…dem singing an dancing an rolling about.

Suddenly ya feel so queer… an ya got da dread upon ya…first ting ya see is dem eyes…blacker than midnight an him skin…yeller…an him tongue like a serpent as it slither down ya throat an wrap around ya heart…an him squeeze until him gotta a good hold…an den de rest of him slide into ya body like a hand inta a glove…an ya cough…an ya panic…but den it too late…ya know him upon ya an he won’t let go…an it pure dread…as him talk ya ta sleep an him take over everyting.

Man me told ya…ya thought ya was hearing voices… but me real…an me bring ya to him… an now him got ya…an it pure dread.

Patrik Gryst (Nom de Plume)


som knuste glass
på den svarte skifer sand
stranda vår den morgenen
dagen smelte-vann
vasket vår shack

alt vi frelst
forankret til Kvitsjøen
den dagen du seilte rush-bølgen
Cassandra flytende frosset kaliko,
Jeg klatret isbreen
grublet din retur

Hvalfangerne gikk på grunn
med nyheten om deg
øyne obsidian svart
jage horisonter I
kunne aldri se,
Jeg klatret isbreen

leter etter en muse
i stein og tre og vann
staving av kulden
med bål og whisky
akseptere det uunngåelige i

Patrik Gryst (Nom de Plume)