top of page

ISBN: 978-1-9151081-3-5

Publication Date: 15 June 2023


Anthony Wilson’s sixth collection, The Wind and the Rain, meets mortality and loss with humour, feeling and intelligence. Wilson combines a deceptively light touch with hard-earned palpable depth; candid, inventive, and never self-pitying.






It’s autumn in La Chaux-de-Fonds. 
The last day of August, the mists arriving early, 
everyone in anoraks. 
10.30 a.m. and already we’re drinking. 
We won’t be together like this again, 
not here, not anywhere. 
It’s autumn in La Chaux-de-Fonds. 
We climb up out of the town, past the stadium, 
and into more mist. There’s a fire. Smoke in the trees. 
Hard to tell where smoke ends, cloud begins. 
On the path back to the cars we look across the gorge 
into the next country. More cars go screaming 
up and down the Pod into the small hours.




I’ve never had an ‘off’ switch around alcohol. 
I can look at a sealed bottle for weeks 
but once it’s open, game over. 
When I was about fourteen, I’d sneak off 
to the larder under the stairs and take gulps 
of my father’s cider straight from the bottle. 
I loved the sweetness, the gentle fizz. 
It made me feel bolder, fuller. 
A slight burning sensation in my nostrils. 
The feeling of confidence that school said I needed. 
The nearest I came to hanging onto it 
when I stepped on stage. 
A safely minor role at first, then speaking parts, 
a middle-class woman, a scientist in an absurdist satire 
about a man with a tiger in his bathroom. 
I could make an audience gasp. 
My shock at that. My need for it. 
The silence after they went home, 
toasting myself in the mirror.




Precise, cinematic, achingly tender poems for those of us who have loved and lost someone close. Like driving rain, this collection will take you to the raw place of grief and carry you to where joy breaks through. 
Josephine Corcoran 

Throughout The Wind and The Rain, Anthony Wilson walks the tightrope of simplicity. He peels off layers of language, paring it back to its core, searching for the means to express the intensity of grief. In his skilled hands, less becomes more. —Matthew Stewart

The Wind and the Rain by Anthony Wilson

  • Train


    Like this train
    heading west


    through rain
    I travel into it


    learning about loss
    as I go.


    Last night my father 
    conked out in his chair –


    he has so much
    to think about –


    which is what I have just done
    Pewsey, Westbury, Castle Cary


    floating by
    in a dream


    a very grey dream.
    You only need to visit Venice once


    because it never leaves you.
    At Paddington


    my flat white was not flat
    nor was it white.




    To the Wife of a Famous Poet


    When you accosted me 
    at the conference


    and shouted my name
    (though I stood one pace from your mouth)


    into the air, 
    declaring it a 


    name for a poet


    what poisonous motivations
    thickened in your veins,


    what certainties,
    that my name, which you brayed


    with such glee,
    my name, 


    which you branded useless,
    could never match that


    of your husband,
    guardian of tradition and canon,


    protector of excellence,
    name I learnt as a schoolboy,


    name of less uselessness than mine,
    name of more than consequence,

    a name one could drop,
    as you did, before you cursed 


    my name,
    declaring it useless?

  • Anthony Wilson is a poet, writing tutor and lecturer. He works in medical and teacher education at the University of Exeter.
    The Wind and the Rain is his sixth collection of poetry. His memoir of cancer, Love for Now (Impress Books), was published in 2012. He is also the author of Deck Shoes (Impress Books, 2019), a collection of essays and criticism.
    In 2015, he published the best-selling anthology Lifesaving Poems with Bloodaxe Books, based on his blog of the same name.


bottom of page