Walk. Thought. Walk


Red soil rusting, a souvenir of the sun

Charmed fingers of furrowed soil stretching

Out across our fertile countryside

We dwell in the jig-saw of the lost and found

We lucky ones of the west


Today, the shortest

Begins in a grey shawl

Water-colour shades that seep

Against the edges of a brief history

When time is the fulcrum


Now hope teeters

On half formed desires

An ancient past and a future

That could be electric

So much in the balance of fractions




A desultory breeze leeched away the years

frenziedly, epically careless

tearing at the surface of life

so that parts are now barren

lost to other continents

my silt accreting on roof tops and cars

annoying strangers – raising ire

where once my life force was being spent


Looking back I sense black holes

whole episodes of the theatre of me

vanished behind the dark fabric of denial

and wonder if the other players

still carry vestiges, my fragments

or if history has taken them to heaven

where in another phase

we shall meet again

Get over it

Get over it

Get over it


I am the hole in my entirety

A doubt in the mass of humanity


Each breath I take, a rehearsal

For another crack at dismal


I am tension in taught wires

A cough in the orchestra pit


All of me spot-lit and disappearing

In simpering pools of shame


On some well trodden stage

Flecked with dust and grease paint


The motes of haunted fabric

Gauzy in the lights


And I wait

For somebody to find me out


A specialist of the shadows

A spectre of the show


To heckle

And shout my name.






Out there beyond the torpor

Past the grey, cold December light

Other people rush to be involved

Get infected by the seasons’ promise

And find them-selves snarled-up

In traffic. Impetuous to please


And so they are gone

Wrapped in their own little bubbles

Imperilled coloured baubles

Infused with fractious lust

Aspirations bloated by want

Adrift in false desire


I am witness. Quietly

In a harbour of my own

Less the glitter

Less ardent

But floating nonetheless

In perilous ennui


But they have a point

For high days and festivals

Deserve a sincere approach

And I am not fervent

In any of my preparations

Perhaps less qualified for the gift

Prize fighter

Prize fighter

Prize fighter




Everything suggests that I am late

The memory, the notes on soiled paper

Remorse and nagging doubt


My skin and my eyes. My hair

All indicate that things have changed

And I am shocked!


Picture books hold vestiges

Of my fading self

That I open now with caution


So where has the locomotion

Of all my life

Been hiding. In which siding?


For all the guides. Almanacs

The legends told

I am not familiar with them all


A shadow falls

Stooped in changing light

And fleetingly is all of me.

Sweet things


Sweet things

Sweet things

That white enclosing space

An infinity of shelter

A blind default

Will sometimes mock me

Make faces

When I am inert


But, forced ink

Makes a stain

And issues to reason

On the unthinkable blankness

That a naked page offers

In all its’ purity


Somehow stretched sinews

Inveigle the tangled thoughts

To draw shapes

That other minds may interpret

And, so, striking a languorous pose

Assume the sweet essence as their own