Through the fast-forward frames

That gentle-rock and carry me homewards

I see familiar – but not – evening shadows

Lying timelessly across harvest-clock fields;

Full leaf crowns of trees that served as masts,

Fuel, trusses, wheel spokes and spear shafts

Lean now on thick, dark hedges

Like off-duty, slightly drunk warders

At the sleepy near-home edges of my day.

Another Breath

For the moment –

Though you and I

Are both the poorer for it –

You are the power

(And don’t we all know it!);

You who shout from the screens,

You who worship the silver.

But we the patient peoples,

Of the Tribes of Trees, know

That this moon will change,

That these tides will turn.

So we pull in another breath,

Turn up our collars

And wait.