Devon. Arch. View.

Devon. Arch. View. pic

lichen on old stone

it’s yellows and greens

in a texture of remembrance

add casual beauty to the aperture

of an arched window through which

one solitary sheep moves by inches

like a maggot across the sward

behind, though filling all the space

a clock ticks encircling me in the view

Bound by knowledge I struggle with

and anchored by all sorts of gravities

I accept an affinity

with that accumulating texture on the wall

and look up to see four more sheep

Where I sit, this place that faces

an old stone wall, ragged and thick

which was the slaughter-house of New Barn Farm

Outside, rough flagstones were the perimeter

of a killing zone. A way out of life

But now, swaying between the tick and tock

I count sheep. Innocent in the view

Dream On

dream-on

Would that we

could linger in romance

our lovers words coating the air

with a fragrance of intimations

so personal they self immolate

and standing back

 wallow in their dust.

But on reflection I find

a sadness in the hearth

when I rake at the ash

and know the ache

of what was lost in flames

hoping with all my heart

that our souls

have not come apart

in this keening for closeness

we knew once as love

One Tree

one-tree

wood sweats on the stress

of a knot

curled lines of bark strain

in a semblance of growth

A sign of

the extrusion of life through pain

but this suffering is inarticulate

unless you count

my concern

for visual clues. My heart-beat,

my complicity with wood,

my drowning in a beauty

so shy it would prefer

to stand alone.

Hello

hello

Come find me passion

Maraud across my open spaces

My steppes, swept and dried

tinged and longing for

infinity

where an echo is out-run

Where lines are drawn and forgotten

like desire that apes only

the very best moments.

All definition and certainty

subsumed in the haste

to consume a lavish meal.

Drowned and spent

The residue. A crust

A lost love affair,

all misty

And so I go

to each new day

An addition. A loss. A stroke

An explosion of now

Fault Lines

Fault Lines.jpg

Forever in the half light

held back by the hand of small

and always, yes always

feeling slight

yet heavy with this sense of loss

This burden like a trope

Afflicting types. My type

Leaving shadows on scenes

and spaces in lines of instruction

lingers on into my dotage

Passively disabling with irony

Where in my youth it was savage

incurring cold treasonous cuts

from an unsteady sense of self-esteem

And later, in my teens

the villains moved in as if

responding to a half-life

ignited by demons that clamoured

at an ill fitting door

I let myself go.