A caught thought


Loss can be sublime

Loss can be sublime

I found this in an old notebook. Why not publish and be damned. To do otherwise would render me damn quiet!


In Bruges. A caught thought.


Scraping over porcelain

Metal notes

The prongs engulf sweet-corn

And lettuce leaves

With omelet


To quell

That urge




Skin red


Old bricks and water

Sleek metalled cobble stones

People steeped in the history

They step upon

  1. Gawp

Gather and stop

Admire and share

In modern tongues

Their imaginings


This being Sunday

Palm Sunday

A church in a foreign land

For customs. To observe

Daffodils stilled by the cold

Firm and green, in tandem

With the trees

Witness the nuns

  1. Singing

Black robes. White cornets

And doves fly

Like reverent symbols

As foreigners feign allegiance

And sing a mime

To the locals prayers

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