Walking Steadily Away …

 

That coming-in tide –

Be it blood, memory or saltwater –

Cannot always be friendly:

It knows nothing, after all,

Of shape, history or consequence.

We all know what we believe

To be true by the things

We decide not to let in… Continue reading

Obsidian Razor

One eye spitefully, casually blinded

By the latest ascendant alpha wolf,

The one that seeks my throne,

My subjects, my honour.

Continue reading

Town’s End?

Riverboat gambler coated,

Thin collar fashionably raised,

The familiar windmill

Spins on blue suede pegs.

I wonder, now, why I never saw

The harsh self-doubt, the

Harshest of self mockery,

The dumb recognition of happenstance

In those flamenco matador poses.

Copper lady, right hand filled

With righteous liberty

As the terrible truth, vulnerability and blame

Crash down again; over

Iconic, decibel-lit harbourscape.

The way it actually is and the other way,

Held in memory, of how it was before.

So much to be proud of.

The air stands still,

The big voice calls on and on.

You? You think too much, preoccupied:

“Who will I be seeing this evening?”

I’m more intrigued by

Who I’m going to be.

 

28/6/2013

 

 

Journeys of Stones

Beginning with the grain;

The barley,

The board and

The beach;

Thinking it

Ought to

Hurt much more,

Mean much more

Than this.

Where is the music?

The returning tide?

Prints prove

You were here before,

But you have no recall.

The songs and cries of pebbles

Ring in your skull

Though you would swear

You’ve never heard them before.

The journeys of stones

Are buried deep

In your bones.

English: Five Pebbles

18/3/2013

Conversation…

I have to think,

Whenever I speak to you

These days,

That you are

Not as fast now

As I remember

You were …”

The goldfish is in

Mid-flow.

Big rains came down,

Heavier than the

World had known.

“I need to remind you,”

The walnut replied,

“Your memory

Is not as sharp now

As it used to be …”

Strong winds impatiently

Re shaped the land.

“Sorry,” the goldfish frowned,

“What were we talking

About just then?”

25/11/2012

About Doors

Through December-strange windows,

Silver framed by frost’s craftwork,

A pair of yellow roses bloom still:

Chariot-ghosts of summer-gone moons,

Like steady, pale cream flames in falling snow.

And, I have been thinking much

About doors these past weeks:
I won’t be using this one much longer,

And it won’t remember me.

Why would it?

11/12/2011