The way You See Them


Hot feet, impatient to eat the miles,

Get past – over, through, round – the

Heart attack jams on this

Stretch of cold-as-business road.

Runes, signs, lines

Whispering at me

“Blue open skies

Are nothing but lies,

Friends will make you weaker …”

But the technology that,

Yesterday, was going to be

All I’d ever need:

To get ahead,

Stay the pace

Is strangling my soul,

Selling my secrets.

Things are always

The way you see them;

Until they change …

Or you do.


Closer to Ecstasy

There’s a dark, deep powerful thread

Running around us now, these

Fifty wild, unloaded ghost-white mustangs,

Manes streaming like tense autumn lightnings

As they stretch their necks and head-down charge

Up the scree-walled slopes to the place

Where the beautiful god-of-all-storms

Presses spells into the lavender-bruise sky

With an axe and a battle-hearted melody.

And I’m full of electric jolts and sparkle,

Riding a box-car built of grey-knot timber and phantom iron,

Sharing the line with a rock-heavy locomotive

That follows a hole drilled in the solid wall of blackness

By the Cyclops-eyed lantern strung from the cow-catcher sweep.

With a heavy, chain muscled hand the fire-box silhouetted driver

Pulls the cord that will set the moon’s-hell bells ringing:

Darkness is coming and I couldn’t be closer to ecstasy.

The Very Air …

Last night, after dancing, laughter,

Connections became passion –

Not yet to be mistaken for commitment –

Between strawberry-blush skies

And a succession of

Blueberry and ash ridges.

This morning

The coffee bites,

There’s salt in the wind, and

The very air has an edge.


The Crocus Road

The small, out-of-history,

Far away lights in these

Big, darkening skies make

Reassuring noises; the shadows

Do not clash and threaten.

The horizon is a pale-line queen

Swooning beneath a ripped-tissue

Curl of early-spring-promise  moon.

The crocus road is longer, much longer

Than I could have expected and I start

To fall towards a gentle, butterfly death.


After Mercy’s wine-sweet twelve,

There’s insistent, chain-gang

Routine-carousel one again.

The roads, skies and

Melody-hung rivers

Pour their silver,

Sinful invitations into

My reluctant-to-ignore ears.

The moon and the rainbow,

Still as distant  as they

Ever were.

Rough Wind

Clean wind, this morning

Straightens the banners,

Spreads the colours.


Rough wind, this morning:

A new kid in the

Wide playground sky,

Not sure of his own power,

His own place,

Testing the order, the establishments.

Clouds lean away,

Sensing difference, challenge,

Lose shape, cohesion;




Orange-balloon sun,

Teacher on duty, watches

From horizon distance –

Much closer than her charges –

Recognises untamed energy,

Welcomes the new spirit;

Observing all with a

Knowing smile.