A Different Pulse.

High, clean wind;

Low-tide water.

here we are,

Walking a thin, hopeful

Line of bare-fertile soil

Between the shore

And Heaven;

Piling smooth stones

One atop the other –

On bedrock –

To hold the

Coming storms away:

Feeling a

Different pulse.




Human condition might have to be
That, every now and every then,
We be defined solely by our problems.
Time doesn’t heal.
The phone doesn’t ring.
The tune doesn’t cheer.
The dark that was once refreshing
Is filled only with malice barbs.
The next message can only be burden.
Stand up!
Be proud!
Hold fast!
There is a way ahead,
Though difficult to see,
Even if it goes steeply downwards
For a depressing while.

Nightmare ?

Born, innocently enough,

In the full, clear light of day –

As simple mischiefs often are –

As sunset-shadows grew long,

It started to go a little bit wrong.

With dark-thoughts getting stronger

It got sinisterly wronger

So, when black night was longest,

Screams at their strongest

It reached dreadful-climax wrongest.



(My apologies to the grammar purists out there.)




There are treasures to be found

In even the dullest, flattest of puddles

Ignored by the  sky-crawl sun:

The finger print shadows of clouds.

This devil-wind is a loveless hammer

Throwing whitecaps against cruel rocks;

War-waters crowd against the walls,

Big mean-business birds are on their way;

There was  a reason for this –

But if I was considered important enough

To be told – I cannot recall what it was.

I remember being told that every

Question is a storm that

Blows both ways;

Every gate is a frame.

You want to know who’s

Sleeping in my bed this week –

Do you really care? –

I need to know who is

Living in my head

Right now!


Photosource: www. santhisdiary.blogspot.com





I take  smoke-music

With my changing landscapes;

Melodies seamlessly stitching

History and present paths




I prefer simple- silence

For my reflections;

It helps me

Put the clouds back

Where they belong.

The Boy

Little-breath dramas;

This is me:

The boy who

Never stopped trying

To catch the sea…

The surface changes so quickly-

Faster than the fates can think –

Reflected silver promise

Of weak, spring sunshine;

Patches of pewter-grey cloud,

Moving with the driven wind

Textures appear, vanish:

Planed, stacked, sculpted –

Held then changed.

Shapes of feathers, dragon claws,

Quills, fins, stretched thumbprints

On fine blue clay slip.

Fractals, ridges, furrows.

Not a boat or sail in sight,

No birds riding the salt air.

The storm is gone,

Cliffs hold breath in granite ribcages.

The road is damp; The long road,

The Tolkien one that

Goes ever on.

Memories change it,

The telling of tales,

But the sea rolling in,

Rolling out,

Pays no mind:

Has no mind to pay;  

Simply abides,

Surface changing so quickly …


Little breath dramas;

This is me …

Fresh Eyes


They’re closing, inexorably now,
The sunset-hinged claws and jaws
Of this high-tide, smooth water
Dark-sky night, to spectacular
Seashore-songbird overture notes.
Fresh eyes will open,
New stars be named,
Small men of the shadow folk
And maidens of the coastal veil
Will meet, laugh, dance and
Share the rich, rainbow fruit
Of forbidden summer valleys
Ere day’s disk be seen again.



photosource:   www.jimworral.wordpress



Council contractors
Came in vans
On Friday,
While I was out,
Tethered a wintermoon
To new pavement
Electric metal pole
Outside my summer bedroom.
The pale-frost light
It casts soothes
The spirits that
Haunt the midnight


Jackdaw Days



Gigantic northern sky leans down

With full-silver wind-weighted clouds

On heather’d hilltop and fairy flag slopes.

Light is leaving, kidnapping colours;

Rain is coming to change the land:

Heaven and soul-sea’s ebb and flow.

If I’m not here when you awake,

Forgive me, I pray, for I’ve

Gone to have my jackdaw days.