All You Get Back …

Comes a time

When the trees, like the clouds,

The waves, the mountains

No longer answer your questions.

leastwise if they do –

You cannot hear,

Or make sense, of them.

Doesn’t mean you have to

Stop asking,

Or give up all faith.

But, surely, when all

You get back is silence

You need to realise

It’s time to start to

Work it out for yourself.

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.




Me and the Little Hand

The window I first saw as green,
Flickered, became, bright yellow
Then purple; it now shows me black –
Or – had I eyes to see it clearly –
Much worse – it might be blank.

The spirit that crosses mountains
More easily than soldiers,
That passed whispered “darlings” and
“Forevers” between us in secret
Dockside rendezvous, still
Dances in her, spills endlessly
From her in silken sheet smiles,
Trembling on the brink of more:
Adventure, climax, sin, betrayal.

It was never the window altering:
It was me: me and the little hand
Moving on.