I take  smoke-music

With my changing landscapes;

Melodies seamlessly stitching

History and present paths




I prefer simple- silence

For my reflections;

It helps me

Put the clouds back

Where they belong.

That Wind.

World wide winds are stirring again,

About to blow the sun and

The full weight of history

Around my fragile pin again.

Fresh-caught fish for supper,

Pine cones for the fire,

Stones on a cairn

For the future.

That wind is

Getting stronger.



The Church of Clocks

Restless are the

Seas and sands of time:

Tidespun and windworked

Lines of invested time.

Ever faster the full moon

leaps the mortal  fences.

I laugh now to think

How devoutly I avoided

Crossing the cathedral threshold

That leads to the Church of Clocks;

Ignored the insidious drip-tock-drop –

Thinking I was being somehow brave –

The doors that closed,

The ones we didn’t see.

Why did it take so long to realise

That our bodies are merely pins

Mercilessly nailing our want-away shadows

To the dry, stinking mud?



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.