I've never been a huge admirer of Walter de la Mare's poetry, but I quite enjoyed Peter Bennet's Workshop over at the Guardian, with poems in the spirit of De la Mare. I like the poems by Byro and Meeuws (I'd agree with Bennet that the latter is the most authentically De la Mare-ish of the lot) and am pleased to see an entry by an old friend, though suspect they've left out a paragraph break in printing it, so that it should really read:
Thrown over her shoulder the light from the lamp
glows in her lap - a fabric of gold.
Her fingers dance in its silken folds
sewing a dress
for a girl she knows, a bride to be;
head lowered to her work until
something distracts her; she stills,
stops to listen:
Go read the whole thing.