Sunday, 1 March 2015

Storm Dogs

on the radio predicts the change
beneath what ears and eyes can note,
distorts the hourly list of accidents,
a politician's latest gaff and sport.

Wind beats
the tallest trees from hot flush still,
my laundry tub ennui, the sky turns sour,
I run to harvest washing from the line
before another lightning shaft brings rain.

The dogs
begin to shake at growling overhead
as if a pack of hounds had their scent and
no escape was close, my arms and lap
chosen second best, but who will I cling to.

Tuesday, 24 February 2015

Night Music

As I read myself to sleep
lost in another's world,
a rhythmic song is rising
from my beloved's chest.

His cadensed snoring blurs
the music of my page.

I fear the day will come
when I no longer hear
the deep breath serenade
that billows on his dreams.

Sunday, 22 February 2015


I float
on a pool of memories,
bouyed by love I held or spent,
recall the warmth of strangers
through each landscape, town
and road I walked, of art explored
and all its paths I dreamed to take.

Beneath me lies
the hidden depth of time
supressed and filtered out,
where spectres of regret and pain
would churn soft waters into mud.
My hermitage and its constraint
the cost required to stay afloat.

Wednesday, 14 January 2015


We accept
in increments,
adapt to broken limbs,
the havoc of wild storms
or someone with a gun,
seek comfort in the past.

We bind ourselves,
cut freedoms we enjoyed,
shun those in need of help.
Are told it gives protection from
the unpredictable next strike,
find metaphors in sport.
Restrict the movement
of young growth and
strangers on the fringe.

We ignore the signs,
our experts who proclaim,
the superficial brightness
of green leaves and
narrow train of thought,
masks the rot within.

Saturday, 10 January 2015


Our slow way home from school,
the reckless game
of fresh plucked, oozing fruit,
mouths and hands turned red,
we swatted flies,
spread the stain
across our sunburnt cheeks.

Watched out for snakes
escaping from
the tangled web of thorns.
Bending in
as far as we could reach.

Played our parts;
Br'er Rabbit and Br'er Fox,
the prickles' biting back
snagged our skin and clothes.
Imagined being trapped,
lost inside the core
where unknown shadows lived.

We rarely see them now,
banned from farms,
the roadside ditch and path,
a fear of poison should we try.
I can't recall their taste.


Saturday, 3 January 2015


Their sound 
cuts through the years.
To outback camp beside 
a water bore, wheeling cries 
above gnarled peppercorn.
One patch of shade 
we rode all day to reach,
birds waiting for our overflow.

Stark against a turning sky, 
concrete monoliths;
the silos ringed by song,
massed feathers pink and grey
spun into sunset red.

Far west,
dark's plunge to cold
from work in dust and sweat,
of being on the wheat.
The nights of silent drink,
their cries at dawn
woke us to heat and thirst.

Sunday, 21 December 2014


When I turn off external noise 
and eyelids close
then I can hear the sounds within.

The tramp of many feet 
grinding down a shingle road,
I see wild ponies on Welsh moors,
nostrils flare as I inhale the scent of herbs 
crushed beneath their dancing hooves.

The rhythmic swoosh of windfarm blades
above an ancient standing stone,
its fretted surface won't reveal
the faith it once proclaimed.

Breathing in all I recall
until the screech of cockatoos
brings me home again.