Inside Out - Don Walls 2006

"Don Walls' latest collection is suffused with light, from the precisely remembered Yorkshire countryside of childhood, to the searing orange of a bomb blast, and the 'close' light of friendship.  Walls does not write about, he writes from within his subjects, illuminating the everyday, the lost and the imagined with a profound empathy."  Dr Marie Crook, Radio Producer

ISBN 0-9546937-4-4  c. Don Walls 2006, Cover Illustration Don Walls, DEADGOOD Publications England.

Recarpeting the Universe

Today I recarpet the universe
wall to wall.
All I need is in the garden shed
 - rolls of space and rolls of time
ruler, set square
tacks and glue,
Ptolemaic maps
so I know what's happening when and where
since space is littered with stars and stuff
frayed, threadbare
but first I practice on the bathroom floor
round the bath and round the loo
with carpet ends
 - parallel thoughts of the room next door
Then well wrapped up - brolly, Yorkshire cap
gaberdine map
a flask of soup
and space - time rolls on a Tesco trolley
I launch myself on Clifton Ings
my friends are there,
celebrities, the Lord Mayor
me mounting the air
 - Land's End
heading for the universe.


It's about wherever I am.
The mood of this room in the evening light.
The ghost of our dog unravelling scents,
And it's like reading a book from the middle, the end
or skipping  a chapter and filling in spaces.
It's about this crack on the pavement,
A canyon for creatures beyond the eye,
or the sea and its imagery of depth and shingle.
It's about moss and wild thyme,
Stars awakening and the immensity of chance
and moments passing into the passing of things -
the archaeology of love,
and how a few words might burst into bud.
It's about the absence of things - shoes by the door
and how something small like a finch's egg is a reminder.
It's about how desire never goes away,
of being somewhere else in someone else's mystery.


So many things kept for years in the garden shed
 - dash television, wireless smothered in dust
and still to fix her sit-up-and-beg,
cobwebs, rust
and algae spreading.


Sleepless at night I sit in the shed
 - anxieties, neurosis -
the dearth of discernment in myself:
those who only cared for themselves
and those who flattered
and those who were close and should have mattered
and all the words that went unsaid.
Don Walls, poet in York, resident poet of the Black Swan Folk Club, published poetry books, buy from Amazone, In the Shed, Down the Lane, Inside Out, Somewhere, Where Are We Now?