King of spiders,
Serene, unafraid now, of death,
Warms his new-fire-bloated body
In the crawl space,
The wall space
Above the dusty pelmet.
Routed winter seems in retreat;
tending wounds in Valentine’s mists
We almost fancy we hear the
Advancing belles of spring.
The name of the old, underground god
Is sprayed on establishment’s walls again –
“Coming to the Rescue!”
Polite, beg-steal-borrow society
Is the balance swinging too quickly
Towards the goose-step years?
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These are the times when seas
Are flicker-black and silver white;
The icy gears of time and colour
Whir, click and gyre
Inside my head and out –
I hear them, feel them slip, miss,
Come alive on this, the least-light day
Of calendar’s small, moon-ruled patterns.
Horizon birthed skyline is a slow bonfire
Between present-grey and lack of clarity.
Did nature bring the reflective
Stillnesses of winter?
Or did we invent them?
This question-prompt night, I feel the
Travel-far wind of her passing –
My cold-silver princess moon –
As it gently settles its precious
On my aching soul and
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From the frozen-gutter pulpit
Outside the chase-road Church
Of the Old Blow-Down Birch
The animated, grizzled-curate crow
Rants and roars at all
The passing traffic,
Spun, crackled; are gone
‘Neath their magic sparks
We laughed, loved and shone.
But this is silver time
Passing on by –
I am water Gypsy –
Diver of the
Deep Truth Lakes.
You are welcome to walk
The margins of the seasons,
The borders between our souls.
But, if you think
To cross the divide
There will be fierce questions.
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The white that fell
Like mushroom spores
Giddily, god-driven; endlessly
Down the skies,
Across the winds.
The white that fell;
That carpeted lawns
That changed the contours,
That blanked the colours,
That washed the sight,
That revised plans,
That altered the focus.
The white that fell
That froze the breaths
Of unfolded sheep;
Brought strangers to the window,
And bent familiar routes.
The white that fell?
It’s falling still.
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