Monday, November 25, 2013


It has come like a tale
whispered in
draughts' dreams
and chinks crashed
with air and stare,
the wind whooshing
all the way in.
The square is stark.
The space clean.
The land vast.
I, a sledge in the mind
and an ark in the heart,
freeze and slide.

Tuesday, November 12, 2013


Dark and low clouds outside
and the shuffling of leaves on leaves,
from the oak, rusty hue, dusty orange.
I’m in bed, shutters closed,
I am awake, I know it’s early
and I lie in the wake of my having been
early for ages, waiting for whatever
bides its time.
Dark and still, I sense the low clouds
in the absence of wind.
The countryside and its stare,
the scattering and gazing of here into there,
maybe I began as a digressing child
giving a face to the countryside,
eyes breathing, seeping into skin,
earth in its damp progressing within
and eyes crediting marvels, unseen,
loving the familiar unknown, within.
Now I am hearing a sound that’s almost a sting,
but it’s soon clear it is a close chirping
like tatted lace in the shutter
indulging in the fabric of its own matter.
The dark filling with fingers of light,
the chirping like an audible smile,
even now, on the year’s decline:
I can’t but believe in what begins.

Sunday, November 3, 2013


The stick your dog picks up on the street
looking back at you while walking,
eyes warm, alert and amused,
in his mouth a trophy to expose,
a clean, honed prey to carry about,
you would never have seen it,
and once he drops it another comes up
instantaneously, you never see him
picking it up and there is no
magician’s trick, just the quick walking,
this new one is even more honed
and white, like marble, and sharp,
a blade the moon has polished
together with the teeth now brandishing it,
it must have been so alluring and near,
it’s now what the skin of the soul reveals
piercing each second with what really is.