Klausījos, kā vilciens nolaižas uz sliedēm; te mana pietura – naktī, kaķu dziesmās un putnu aurēšanā. Liepas piejauca medus smaržu sikspārņu dejām; kad tevi vairs negaida, atliec sīknagus vecas mājas spārēs, Jasmīnu ziedlapas putēja nesakārtoti, viss krustu šķērsu rakstos, lietus iesistos pelēkā zemes palagā. Ko tava uguns gribēja, tumsā plaiksnīdama? Nepratu salasīt, ai, neprāta mīlestība […]Read More pietura naktī
Sometimes we snap. Like dry branches, like frost, And bury the others with us. Chips from a lightning-struck oak, Splinters of pine, unruly cones All in a heap, rushed To a conflagration. Sometimes the ragged Edges know only to tear, And heal all crooked. Flames lick at the dark Fluid inkiness Stabbed with stars And […]Read More dry spell
the red blotch on the asphalt was not. could not be. red. more of the grey. grainy and rough, like a dead puddle. the road-marks kept silence and shone in the dark till the cars all left and their headlights with them. in the dark, all red is black. what will remain when/as the liquid […]Read More headlights
Today he would have been 36. Three dozen years on this earth, under this sun. Who knows how life would have turned out, what his story would have been. We, who loved him, still do, I’m sure of it. We measure the time by his death: before he died, the year he died, after he […]Read More june 3, 2019
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.