Chris Hardy lives in London and has also lived, and travelled, in East Africa, Asia, and Europe – especially Greece and Italy. His poems have appeared in many  magazines and anthologies. Some have won prizes, for example in the National Poetry Society’s, London Writers’ and other poetry competitions.


His third collection was published by Graft Poetry.

'An intensely enjoyable collection' (John Lucas); 'I found wonders in many of Hardy’s lines' (Anne Stevenson).


Chris is also a musician: a CD of acoustic music, ‘Health To Your Hands’ is available from 'You can easily imagine his name being mentioned in the same sentence as John Renbourn or Eric Anderson … well worth checking out.' (Guitar Magazine).

'The picking is glorious and the songwriting excellent.'

(Acoustic magazine).


He is in LiTTLe MACHiNe performing their settings of well known poems. They have appeared with the poet laureate, Gillian Clarke, Liz Lochhead, John Cooper-Clark, Roger McGough and other poets and are busy at literary events across the country -

'It’s my great privilege to be the warm-up act for LiTTLe MACHiNe, most brilliant music and poetry band in the world.' Carol Ann Duffy.














138 x 216mm


72 pages


£8.99 + P&P UK


ISBN 978-1-910834-60-2




Cover / author photo Martha Hardy










This is a collection of poems about how fate is what happens and how what happens to us is fate: how we find ourselves looking at the sea from a mountain and knowing for a second that this is all there is - we came from nowhere and are going nowhere .. and promptly forget what we know.



‘Bird nesting in mailbox. Rat scrabbling in wall. Spring uncoiling and a welcoming harbour.

A guitarist as well as a poet Chris Hardy consistently hits the right note, never hits

a false note.’

Roger McGough  


‘The acute poems of this wonderfully named fourth collection are always clear, sometimes rueful. Amongst wars and rissoles, they cherish their ghosts. Past and present are summoned by memorable lines with strength and tenderness.’ Alison Brackenbury  


‘These poems explore Time, from the tender appreciation of new life, through all its vicissitudes, to death. Time alters, enhances, destroys. ‘I’m done with time’ says the poet.

But only Time is present: these poems deserve to be read slowly, to appreciate the many

and varied nuances which lead to the comprehension of the Now.’

Patricia Oxley




Sunshine at the end

of the world


Chris Hardy









Sunshine at the end of the world


In the Moravian graveyard

the dead stand up,

cold, mud-clamped sentries

knee-deep in the water table.

Daisies spreading across

Spring grass touch

the square stone lids.


Better to be thrown in the sea

with a lump of lead.

Then the flowers that follow,

the small white blossoms

I’d ask for,

would from far below

resemble stars.





Kathleen serving

rissoles, carrots,


her mother at the cooker

looking on.


Down Dog Lane

at night


the stars

conceal us


in the corner

of the air-raid shelter.


Birds sleep

in the hills,


black folds

beneath Orion.


Owls call

and try to


scare us back

into the light


before we can

find out.





The city sprawls along the shore

like a beach of stones

and crawls up the hills

searching for cool air.


I lean over the rail

of the ferry,

anxious not to let

my father’s watch,

on my wrist now,

fall into the water,

though if it also took

the thing coiled inside it

to the bottom of the sea

I would feel differently.













Lying on your side, unsmiling, calm,

the shawl up to your chin.


You have come down in the dark

from a globe of water,


slick blue fish suddenly small

red ape, anemone fingers.


While I remember how we all got here

and wonder what might happen next


you watch the evening light upon the wall,

feel a touch where your skull breathes.


Through the window and the door

the world is there, just over there.


Soon each moment will spread before

and behind you like the sea, but now


all there is for you is your

immortal, unopened, second.



The bird has flown


When we returned after many weeks

I opened the mailbox and found the post


piled round and even on

a small bird nesting inside.


Your letters, that lay about her,

had wings too.


Tonight the wind blows the sea

upriver into the city


and I remember you, there

at the end of a page.


Sweet life, left easily behind,

like a letter, signed and posted,


then you turn away

and go back home.



Behind closed doors


A rat scrabbling inside the cavity wall

behind the chair you sat in made you start

eyes wide towards me in surprise

almost reaching where I stood.


At night we locked the kitchen door,

where I’d rammed the broom handle

in the hole they’d eaten through the floor.

We listened to them grinding at the pole,


aware they knew they’d never starve,

would break out from their pits and voids

through damp green lino glued to boards,


and lay apart white-breathed beneath

piled blankets as the tireless gnawing

crawled upstairs and into bed between us.

9781910834602 author amend