The Road That Runs …


Choosing the offered hood today

I kept the occasional company of kings;

Gloucester, Graceland and grey friars.

White boar, white rose, white boy

Singing the back, slap-beat blues.

Lubbock, Leicester, da Vinci, Las Vegas.

I walked candle-honeyed cloisters

Breathed some airs of history’s change.

Memories refreshed this day,

Reputations revisited with care, diligence;

Hindsight’s mirror shows that,

Though we swallowed his habit-hate words,

The spear shaker played it false:

Making his words fit uneasy times,

Making his words dance for pieces of silver,

Building fame on flattery’s lies.

Too keen the unfair challenge,

Too indecent soon the charge,

Too sharp soon the judgement

Too soon the falls the axe;

The Stanley switch, The record sun.

Years later we are keeping the faith

That you defended:

The road that runs, friendless,

Through the desert

Will always end;

But that’s alright,

That’s alright.

The range and catch in the gospel voice,

The lifted shoulder that carried responsibility,

The doctored propaganda-proper image

Of craven limp, contemptuous lip

The scandal breeding, twitching hip.

There are long flakes falling white down the years

Stretching the legs of camp followers,

February streetwalkers, coffee cup outlaws.

The hayride road home,

Verged with Loki-light fields of moonless snow

Along the Spartacus road, is roofed with

Thinking skies that hold no visible stars

As if the gone-by day held sufficient…

But that’s alright,

That’s alright,

Any way you please.



The Loki Throne


A little bored,

A little angry

With the world

Aging February

Slinks into

The Loki Throne,

Fingers the runes

Carved in the walrus ivory arms,

Speaks the Words of Summoning

That draw forth

Ice-harsh winds

That whip and claw

The earth below.

Reactions of the mortals

Bring a grim, satisfied smileto

The corners of the cruel mouth.

February dons the Misrule Mask:

“Light you fires?”

He mocks in whisper-voice,

“To warm the bones

That you borrowed from clay?”

“To purify the ground?”

“To summon the Fisher-King?”

“Mark my words well

You Sons of Passing Time:

Does he listen for your call,

This tree nailed,

Twice drowned fool?

“For answer, cast your eyes to

Your stuttering fire:

I doubt it!”




Hold the Future Closer.

Before colours could bleed their

Confidence-trick confusions

Into the new day

The wandering hidden people danced;

Danced to celebrate reaching

Season-border clapper bridge.

Dressed in sliver and grey motley they

Wove loose-limbed,

Long-step patterns around

Rippling pyres of tall, blue pale flames.

The world around lay fierce-choke quiet,

Holding a night-long breath:

Yet I felt the music:

Echo-ghost voices of deep-jet whales,

Ice-heart sibilant percussives,

Vibrations of undiscovered stars,

Chorus winds of dragon-banner conflict.

They shunned me not,

Showed gentle respect and,

Though I know I will not meet them again,

I no longer neither doubt not fear

Their presence here,

For they belong as much as we –

And I hold the future closer, tighter now.


Charlotte’s Grandchildren



In the distance, below the horizon ridge

A honey coated horse is head down grazing;

At rest,  firm edged shadow leaning long

Down the gentle February slope.

It is nearly possible to hear the explosions

In the atomic heart workings of the sun –

On a day which balances preciously between

Passing winter and welcome spring…

And Charlotte’s grandchildren are

Taking to the joyful jester-hope skies.




Photo source:


Impact Minus Fifteen.

My life is another country;

I am often a stranger there.

She’s not going to jump,

So I won’t even try …

And an asteroid is coming;

Think I’ll stay

On the bar stool.


My Fault ?

Where did they go,

Those thought-bright fishes?

Those that filled my eyes?

Fleet-fast orange, blue, silver

Coral-circus dazzle-dancers:

There, then not, then flash-back

Again; noiseless yet crackling

Like electric sweet wrappers,

Organic, fluid metal gems.

Where are they now?

On kite-sun evenings

Like these,

I miss them so.

The endless, God-chain

That surprised me constantly

With form, with size, with flight;

With spikes, with might, with fight:

Challenged my very perceptions

Returning from fossil dawn waters.

Will I ever see them,

Their like again,

Those angel-dream darlings?

That fed my soul,

That kept me whole

Mornings like this

I find I need them,

That I grow smaller

In their absence.

If their disappearance

Was my fault –

That perhaps I took

Them for granted –

I hope they will accept

That I realise

How wrong I was.


Shuffle of White Wings.

Fighting cold, fighting cramp,

Seeking shelter in the back of

A windowless morning cold car.

Greedily shovelling yesterday’s grease

Into a care-starved face;

Needing to put bread into a

Bank called tomorrow –

The one she didn’t believe in,

The one that grew too close,

Too damned fast.

She is aware of the shuffle

Of clean white wings,

But can’t decide:

Is it an angel calling?

Dead-eye, black head gull?

Or her gone-gone baby?


The Helmsman’s Hood

The biggest truth was
The first one we lost;
Oh so casually –
The first of many that,
Even now, are
Slipdripping through our
Ignorant, care-nothing fingers.
We mend the irrelevant barricades
(Too foolish late),
The nets, bait the
Big, hopeful hooks with
Embroidered versions of our histories.
The helmsman’s hood is filled
With gracefully spinning stars and wheels;
The captain keeps a useless log.
“Lack of knowledge is
Lack of power …”
Masthead albatross, feckless,
Greedy wide-winged messenger
From the long-dark night
Is fond of chanting.
“Lack of knowledge …”
Do we blindly believe again –
Or open our hearts?


Brings to Mind.

Age-of-coming girl on
Simple rope ‘n’ plank trapeze.
Metronome beat, measuring
Time, lust and performance;
Moving over stones:
Stones that stand for ages,
Stones that skip,
Stones that try to hide –
And the ripples they make
In still, deep waters.
It’s not always what you see,
Sometimes it’s what it
Brings to mind.



“Home,” sighed the captain;
One quiet word, on
The edge of the outbreath:
“Home,” a wish-whisper prayer.
And, fatigued, we cut
Ourselves free of the
Toil, toil nets,
The hook, hook ropes;
Turned our backs on
Long-wave whale roads,
Aurora sewn skies;
Opposed the route the
Miserable creature
(Monster-to-some) took.
We are done – again –
With the north.
“Home,” the captain sighed.


Photo source: