Listen. Time passes. D. Thomas The green trajectory a leaf Leaves when floating to the floor, Cuts the air in arches. Time measures us all, Time allows us to fall Almost to the ground, and grinds Our memories for its tea. The green whispers in passing, Somersaulting through the landscape Of things that grow and […]Read More green arches
This is my song — with the wee sparrows Persecuting their parents across the car-trodden streets, With the young starlings, coarse And learning to fly in a crow-infested universe; A song made with pink chestnut flowers in southerly wind, Heaping up on street-corners; And an occasional rustle of a brown oak-leaf pinned up by bright […]Read More echoes of fire
The sand has lost all colour. No, maybe it is the colour Of small, sharp stones that Make up gravel so simply. Yes, the colour of the sharp, Grey, cold and merciful. Her song went unheard. She And the sand now are intimate. Intimate much more than one desires. Grey, cold and so sharp that […]Read More Anguis fragilis. Slowworm.
Her head is white, sticking Out of the green and the grey; She stands tall, all hollow, All proud till All is ready, all set — And now she waits. Summer is coming, its winds Will dry the world, carry Her children to places She will never go, beyond The reach of the sight or […]Read More dandelion
A blackbird, his wife and a pair of bewildered sparrows Look up from the ground — Thunder is coming. Rainworms are reckless, Leaving their safe darkness to look with sightless eyes upon stormlight. And so they leave, Half a rainworm each, to shut little yellow yelling mouths to make more of their own kind, In […]Read More stormlight
Up to my ankles in pollen, floating in recent puddles, whilst grumpy grandchildren watch, restrained by frantic grammas, I laugh. To be grown-up sometimes means to step into puddles and smell roses and jump to a tune played inside your own head. I laugh, and walk into rain envied by children, seen by the shuddering […]Read More between the mud and the blue
In my dream, we make tea. Black, strong and smokey, Like a gun, full of promise. The liquid pours into cups, The aroma ascends, We breathe: Fingers cradling the hot, too hot fragile shells. The dragons will break out They will sing with fire, They will dance for us, with us Till our wits’ end. […]Read More the drinking