Thursday, 28 December 2017


moss-stained stones
on a frozen morning
and I think of you
always out of sight
hidden in your box
forever gone
while I travel past
another graveyard

last sighting

a half-known tale
of silent lines
soundless figures
a long vanishing
and then what was
what never was

The Wisdom of King Solomon

was not in finding out the child’s true mother
but knowing that the child should stay with her
and not some grasping, lying, phoney other.

[After Reading David Barnabas Hughes' Master's Dissertation on 'Philomena']

Saturday, 16 December 2017

...of blossom

this fallen tree
this severed branch
these broken twigs
this lifeless leaf
and this lost memory...

Friday, 15 December 2017

No Butterflies Today

No butterflies today. No flowers.
No trees. No hills. No sunsets burning.
No wondrous awe. No insights clear
demanding to be written down
right now/right here. No wry asides.
No sharpened wit. No Hudibrastic rhymes.
No silence giving birth to thought.
No that. No this. No deft reveal.
No metaphors. No meanings hidden.
No eyes opaque. No new day born.
No ocean waves. No invitation.
No path. No seat. No wall. No view.
No flame alight. No skewered smile.
No sunken clouds. No crashing fear.
No silent march to unheard screams.
No staring at the clock. No poets' dreams.
No book. No page. No line. No pen.
No ink. No words to say. No end.