In powerful-weak sunlight
Big-Crow totem tree grows
Down from cloud-lung alveoli,
Performs the fine opposite of division Continue reading
She stretches long slim limbs
Across the paths
Tipped by fingers wind-stirred fingers.
December-sun blued catkins
Cool cloudscape sundown bubbles
Rise and gurn like bad ogre’s
Thrice-warmed breakfast bean porridge:
Grey, unappetising but irresistible. Continue reading
We are the sleepers,
Found in winter-constant corners:
Three moons round
Deep in never-knowing dreams,
Those and dusty-corpse webs.
We are the always-buried hearts,
Recognising no Heaven:
Pulled towards our
We are the
Settled in a motion home,
Feeding to move,
Moving to feed.
It’s spring where you are ?
Feel it, believe it!
Funny how green
Can bleed from red,
Life can sprout
From the frozen and the dead.
Cruel April is here,
Freedom’s grim and tenacious
Demanding faith, seed and labour:
Fees for continued redemption and
I am water Gypsy –
Diver of the
Deep Truth Lakes.
You are welcome to walk
The margins of the seasons,
The borders between our souls.
But, if you think
To cross the divide
There will be fierce questions.
Photo source: www.bbc.co.uk
I am heron,
Last of the lonely fisherfolk clan,
Wrestling breath and existence
At December-Edge Lake.
Needs must when
So I will take
Frogs from frozen mud,
Cold-killed cadaver from bog ditch graves,
Maggots from fieldside muck-heap
And warmth from memory cells –
And shun your hypocrite charity.
My hopes and words I store
Between stare-down-the-Devil eyes,
Behind decision sharp weapon bill
Beneath my fog-toned feather cape.
They are mine, not yours,
Seek them not.
I seek no camouflage for
Past, ruthless savagery –
That stranded me here –
Fossil in all but fact –
Pale target for avaricious
Cowardly mobs of
Denying the truth
Destroys the soul
As sure as sin
And damages any future
I may hope to have.
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