Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Autumn leaf

Laughter eloquent as leaf,
in golden, shimmer shudders,
to dress the sky so briefly;
and haunt the soil in time.

These offerings of Autumn
hang lightly in the air,
and dance decays becoming;
twixt life and death ensnared.

Each one is born in solitude,
and dies alone at last,
in crumbling drifts eternal;
from tree to waiting earth.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

The river

The ring of water grew slowly; washing,
in circling, funnelled, constancy,
against the earth on which she sat. The
floods had come, both literal and symbolic,

watering the dry, hard ground of psyche and
of  soil. It was, they whispered, just
a stage that she was going through, or was
that growing through? In the silence,

on the edge of fallowed fields of broken
grain, she could almost imagine that
the land would be swallowed by that suck
of snaking river, released, when dams

broke, further upstream - in places she
had never seen and of which she could
only dream. Dust settled between bare
toes, and sighed in dark sorrow at

the edge of sole, until, at last, as the
sun fell limply into stubbled fields,
she dropped her feet over the edge;
and washed the grains of dirt and memory

from all that she had become in that
time, at the edge of ageing worlds.

Saturday, March 18, 2017


Your thoughts applied
so physically; thick and
barely formed, to paint
the essence critically;
dark colours, blurred,
forlorn. And in the drip
of wet, soft fear, the tones
reduced my heart, with
grey and black and solemn
strokes, tearing me apart.
No light allowed, no sun
could reach, no play of hope
bestowed, and sunset drew
the dawn’s bright face;
death’s cock would
mournful crow.

Meet the Bar with impressionism

Thursday, March 16, 2017


days write large in moments,
weeks which seal the hours,
months to make it solid;
so the years are formed.

in the drip of minutes, in
the fall of days, in the hold
of months, we see... our
lives are full displayed. 

Tuesday, March 14, 2017


Spring of teal plays nautical,
hawsers set in flight, 
secured upward curvature;
released from deepest hide.

Flinging wash of moment, 
season rises fast, 
mattress for the Summer;
blossoms quickly cast.

Equinox is vernal,
solstice beckons strong,
power is coil eternal;
seed in bursting song.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017


In that moment when hope
screams hollow, lost for all
time, falling down into a
darkness which cannot be

imagined, and yet which is
always feared; hidden from
sight, but not thought; that
is when despair pegs itself

to the line of consciousness,
held in place, at the mercy
of the winds, and blazing
sun, for what seems eternity.

Monday, March 6, 2017


It has faded, the image
of Christ, we bought in
Russia. Neither of us
believed, but valued

the art of the icon, in
which others invest so
much faith, hope and
trust, deserving to have

it more than we did,
and yet, perhaps in that
place of non-belief, we
put our coins on the

counter, as an act of
trust, hope and faith,
even if we did not know
it, or, even dared to think

that it might possess a
power beyond its small,
material self, which,
while faded, in that time

bleeding which happens
to all things, still offers
beauty, grace, and a faint
sense of pure possibility.


I pose the possibility
that prose is not a word
to fit with any poetry;
the concept is absurd.

For prose is just the way
we speak, no metre, and
no rhyme; no meeting to
be had, in poetry sublime.


Reflected, in the mirror
of your eyes, remembering
in that dream of who you
were, who I was, or might

have been, if things had
been different, if the depths
of your being, had, like the
lake, flung back the truth

of who you were, who I
was, or might be; and yet
even if it had, I would only
ever have been a reflection.

Small stones for March

March 1

Days draw deep 
and quiet, as noisy 
magpies sing.

March 2
Autumn whispers through
the tangled skirts of 
fading Summer.

March 4

Love breathes hollow,
ashen-faced, upon
hard chest of grief.

March 3

Clotted skies of 
sombre brooding;
Autumn taps her feet.
March 5
Hope, holds steady
pace, on Fear’s
parade ground.

March 6.

Rain like mist,
whispers to the
reaching grass.

Thursday, March 2, 2017

On caring

There are times when those,
we love, become ravelled in
deep places, dark abodes, of
being, and they can no longer

hear our voice, sense our
presence, feel our love, and
instead, they build walls of
thought, to hold back the tides

of connection; placing cold
fingers in seeping cracks, to
ensure, that the feelings will
not break through, to wash

them clean of the pain, and
hurt, and all we can do, on
the other side, is pray with
love and bright compassion.