Summer Banjo

Generosity of candlelight

Reflected from grateful surfaces

Of fruit bowl planets;

Todays winds, that stilled the gentle

Tadpole breaths of unborn lambs,

Carried snow past hesitant windows

Will be gone, gone, gone:

Like the words of a song,

Like hard-to-count years in harness.

From somewhere in the

Long-possibility tomorrows

I almost hear the

Summer banjo players

Getting closer …

And I don’t need to

Check my tickets.


September Evening Coming Down.


The wind, middle September evening,

Middle strength,

Keeps switching around.

But it’s not so bad;

Kindling smoke is gone,

There’s orange white heat

In the heart of the fire.

The fuel on it now is blaze-dry.

But these flames,


What ?


What are they doing?

Leaning this way on the wind,

Then that,

Looking something like fingers,

Groping into the shadows.

Are they ecstatic?

Swaying in some semi-religious fervour,

A trance dance,

Worshipping their creator –

That’ll be me then.


The sudden warmth is on me, over me in

Waves, up my lower legs, wrapping the fronts of my knees,

Feinting left to bubble my hand in heat,

Then Smack!

Full blow to the face.

I lean back in my chair,

Hearing a thousand teachers

(“Would you sit on your own chair like that?”)

In a thousand schoolrooms:

Me, smiling happily at the echoes.

Whoa! That is some kind of heat on a

Cooling night!


Or are the flames fingers of blame?

I’m guilty of something

But don’t know what:

I’m used to that notion by now,

I smile to myself.

They are accusing me?

(Join the queue!)

Judging me?

The sentence will be …


All too soon there will be

Only embers …

Septembers …

and grey morning hangover.




17th September, 2012.