Further Away


Their long,

Slim, flower-queue bodies

Jostled by late-fall flakes of

Light mid-day snow

Hazel catkins shiver,

Dance, nudge one another,

Seeming to enjoy the attention:

Slender-spire plumes of

Spring’s candle-fire.

Immediately beyond the small paned window

The fall is innocent, robbed of threat –

Simple, gentle, deceitful horizontal descent.

Further away, between the

Game-cover wood and the

Hedge cuttings brash pile

It more capricious,

Openly slanted and vicious.

While I’m asleep

Some things will happen,

Some things won’t.


photo source: www.hollybank-woods.hampshire.org.uk

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!”




Rocks That Float

Huge time-passing rocks

That float, like clouds

In a sea of grains.


Friend of the sands,

Whose carpet is

Knowledge and fire

Following invisible corridors

Written in the stars –

By the winds of histories,

And faith.


Desert camp, Jordan, 16/10/2012

Children of the Fortress

Badwitch coming,

Burning down the skies,

On skirts of ragged green fire.


Badwitch coming,

Burning down the walls,

Carrying knowledge of

The dark gods deepest secrets;

Of the key that

Shouldn’t be turned.


We are children of the fortress,

Trembling, waiting;

Holding to the pebble truth:

It’s not what you take away,

But what you get to leave behind

That really, really counts.



Without Reflection.

“Fire,” I said,


Without reflection,

“It’s about the spaces

Between the flames;

What was there before,

What is left

When it’s passed.”

“It’s not always pretty,

Not always better …

… and sometimes

You have to borrow

The eyes of your friends.”