I am one simple step

Off the path;

The heather and grass move

And, as suddenly as that – click! –

I am a little lost:

Not quite of, and in, this world,

Not quite not.

Surrounded by the ringing charms

Of constant-cuckoo choir;

And the long-travelled  voices

Of ghosts of migrant geese,

The high, wind-thinned whining

Of a fence that leans

On shifting shadow-cloud;

Marching stoically into

The resolute grey distances and futures:

The truth alone may

never be enough again.



The Church of Clocks

Restless are the

Seas and sands of time:

Tidespun and windworked

Lines of invested time.

Ever faster the full moon

leaps the mortal  fences.

I laugh now to think

How devoutly I avoided

Crossing the cathedral threshold

That leads to the Church of Clocks;

Ignored the insidious drip-tock-drop –

Thinking I was being somehow brave –

The doors that closed,

The ones we didn’t see.

Why did it take so long to realise

That our bodies are merely pins

Mercilessly nailing our want-away shadows

To the dry, stinking mud?



Each day, your harsh, carefully chosen words

Build a fence –

Or build it higher …

And, make no innocent mistake:

Invitations do not inclusion build.


Encourage worship of false deities;

Make the carving of token totems

Easier, if not inevitable.


Choose to find your piece in

Bottom-line profits,

If you must.

I will find my peace in

The mountains.