The Night Watchman. (Original Version).

Engraved upon night,
Gaunt, solemn as ruins,
The moonlit wharves appear
Never to have known
The ear splitting dissonance of engines,
The clamour of voices,
The scurry of shoes.

At home in your arms
I do not fear
These hours of silent watchfulness;
The sparse silhouettes
Distorted by moonlight;
The threat of a flick knife
Uncovered in shadow,
The sure footed thieves;
But only know
The warmth of your presence
Curled deep into darkness,
The pulse of your breath,

Your fingers guided by praise.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter 
April 25th. 1967. - October 23rd. 2012. 

Josephine, Gypsy Girl.

Seeing is believing.

Wandering among the wagons I watch the frost forming on crushed grasses even as I walk.

The tethered horses trample the filigree whiteness.

Fallen leaves have turned brittle in the frost. Snowdrops crouch under a ruination of trees.

An untrained woodsman has hacked deep into the tangled branches.

The moon, a cold white reflector crazed by clouds, intermittently flickers light into the February
bleakness. I stand stock still and shiver.

The darkest nights have passed. Spring is yet to flourish.

In the chill distance a dog barks.

I wait and listen to hear if the horses have once more settled, and then climb the wooden steps up
into your ancient wagon. At first I see nothing.

Hurting my eyes I peer deep into the dark interior. An oriental paradise of carpets and plump
cushions befogged by incense welcomes me. You sit on the narrow bed smoking a cigarette.
You are at home in this musty artifice.

Now only the moonlight illuminates the wagon.

The incense masks the shadows.

We lie side by side but not touching, cocooned in an empathy of silence beneath the patchwork
bedspread that once belonged to your mother, and her mother and grandmother before her.

Once your mother tried to part us. We laugh when we think about that. Deftly we link shy fingers.

Outside the wind is stirring the silhouettes of the trees upon the muslin curtains. Snug in our love
we study each others faces for hour upon silent hour until the moonlight falters. The darkness
does not disrupt the calm within our sanctuary. Your presence comforts me. Not seeing is also believing.

We kiss without speaking.

Eventually we sleep.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
May 6th. - May 9th. 2011. 

October 1st.

Dust motes drifting in sunlight
A soft veil of quietude.

I lift your photograph off the shelf
With a nervous hand.
I should have smoothed back
That wild tangle of auburn
Before I flicked the shutter.
I look deep into the solitudes
Of your startled eyes
Black in their small alcoves of shadow;
Then kiss the shadow of your lips.
Like a child in torment,
Lost on the dark side of the moon.

Will I hear your footsteps on the garden footpath
Before the leaves have fallen?



Trevor John Karsavin Potter. (For J P).
October 1st. 2012.

Starlight Love Poem. (New Completed Poem).

This love I offer is not an empty token.

Cuddle up close against the winter night.
We are the same material as the stars
And should not fear this darkness.

The stardust in your eyes
Is far more ancient than decoded time
And cannot be snuffed out by simple night.
Love invokes an infinity of galaxies
With a single perfect glance
More radiant than a darting meteorite.

Love cannot be unspoken.

Huddle up close against the winter night.
We are the same material as the stars
And should disregard this ordinary darkness.

Spellbound by sleep, snuggled tight,
Cusped in charity of perfect loving,

Our dreams are bright with elemental power
Eliminating voids with dazzling light.
We are wise children of the universe
And should not be afraid.

Snuggle up close against the winter night.
Our love is stronger than reason dares. 

Our love cannot be broken.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
27th. September 2012.  - 4th. - 5th. - 16th. April 2022.

This is the corrected version I like the best.

Clog Dance. (Revised Version).

All my yesterdays - deep in my head
Telling me to write.

The gypsy woman - with eyes that pierced me
Telling me to write.

The Irish girl - who crashed my heart
Telling me to write.

The old despair - deep in my head
Telling me to write.

The English girl - who cleared the wreckage
Telling me to write.

Dead friends - who stayed for half one night
Telling me to write.

Dear friends - who stayed for half my life
Telling me to write.

The Yankee girl - with the white haired child
Telling me to write.

Her outstretched hands - breaking the dark
Holding me tight.

Her northern voice - soft as the night
Telling me to write.

Her father - telling me right from wrong
Making me fight.

Over the rooftops - wild geese in flight
The beat of their wings loud in my head
Telling me to write      WRITE      WRITE...........


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
26th. September 2012.  - 21st. February 2013. 
25th. January 2016. 

Planting Bulbs. (A Poem in Four Sections).

                                1

I slice open the summer hardness with a steel spade
Breaking through a scattering of stones and soil
Compressed into slabs more solid than flat rock.
The work is so tough that frequent rests are needed
Between the bouts of shoulder grinding spade work,
Hands raw, my back curved into a shallow C.

I stop to take a drink, and then another.
The flask you filled for me is almost dry.

                               2

Preliminaries completed, I shove a sack load of early bulbs
Deep into the swart earth, punching all down to no set order
With trowel and gnarled thumb. I pause to recollect
A decade of Springtime mornings in this our garden,
This discreet North London sanctuary, well hidden from
the neighbours. Here winters are usually drab, a miserable
inconvenience. I look forward to an abundance of loveliness.

                               3

Well that is enough hard grafting.
I put the kettle on the hob
And take time out for a sandwich.

Then the phone rings and rings.
You terrified in the surgery.

The cost of that IVF treatment 
Is completely beyond all reason. 
The doctor`s concern is the money, 
Not our welfare. 

Nor the child`s, no doubt.

I drop the phone on the step
and start to cut back the roses.-
Love is too often beyond our means,
Even you must see that. 

                          4

Quietly melancholic in this downturn of the year,
I sit and stare at the dun tilth. Maybe that doctor will find
The time to contact me, or then, more likely, not. Gardening
tools lie scattered over the patio, discarded bits and pieces
dropped by a desolate child. Without much interest I watch
An angle of shadow decline in steep slow motion
Across the irregular curve of the garden wall.

With one disaster digging out another 
It will take a good seven years to pay back that loan. 

The equinox provokes a distinctive shift in the weather.
I watch the steep descent of a watery sun.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 7th. - September 25th. 2012.
Revised March 25th. 2013.

First Time.

When you first caught me
I was frightened to life
Like a schoolboy having a prize flight
In a jet fighter.

The fairground horses that stood around us
Neighed their quaint approval,
But the morning grass was wet and slippy
Where their hooves had trod.

"So this is being grown up", I whispered
Taken aback by how easy it was.
You choked back a laugh, watching the clouds
Scudding over the same old sun.

Later you gave me a cigarette.
The smoke tasted of camp fire kisses.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
September 16th. 2012.