Echo

Echo. Photograph

 

that midnight spell

when we capered in moonlight

felled trees with shafts of cold precision

and waited for the morning dew

to lay diamonds on the day

 

though nothing was sordid

not like an inhabited day

which rains through grimy overlays

but now, in silence

the dark and smothered perspective

 

is waiting for sound

to give distance away

Shock in Awe

Writers pique. Photograph

 

He spoke to me of grace

and said it was ‘second hand’

 

I found that hard to understand

when words came so easily

 

The air he used he said ‘was spent’

just turned and turned around

 

 like a soft breeze

that could threaten storms

 

and there I was, as if

in the presence of a prophet

 

Spell-bound in admiration

for a weaver of thoughts

 

but he just smiled and said’

‘It’s a wonderful thing’

 

and left me flailing

in an alphabet. Like a dope.