Neighbour

He’s choppin’ at the strings

With intelligent-blues hands

Swappin’ up words ’bout

Love, the Devil and autumn

But beneath all the fury –

Raised voice, clenched fist;

Beyond the witch-gypsy mask

He still picks vegetables for

The local church harvest.

Getting Past the Questions

No point in asking the doctors

How long we will need

To decide if there is

Something wrong with time.

Have there always been

These soul-quiet streams

From the seas of space

That stop the darkness

Getting in, that keep us from

Getting past the questions?