Arctic Star

The sun doesn’t rise here, or

Else will never set at all; there is

No security in night’s blankets

Where there is no sanctuary

And every breath is hard-won.

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The Dreamtime Fire

From the warmstones that circle

The dying dreamtime fire

Rises a ghostdance drone.

Fast falling sun is a scalped skull

On a medicine horizon pyre.


This is the Eve of Retribution;

Tomahawk, drum and lance-chant zone –

Vendetta’s insistent dark-whisper tools,

Revenge’s twisted-logic shadow rules …

And … escalation echoes travel swift

Between dog-fox scout and

Sabre-blue troopers:

Each and every one:

Today’s-war fools.



Aerospace Museum

Time rests its

Camouflaged wings here:

History’s carefully machined

Leading edges, desperations

And siren devastations.

Power is spiral, so

Bound to swing both ways.

Powered down now:

Quiet demons:

Sources of fear,

Sources of hate,

Sources of pride-in-adversity

Suffer together –

Without skies.