Home. A poem


wind-tied molecules cling to a park bench

their aggregated jewels drawing colour

from soft morning light

as the dogs and their owners stroll by

oblivious mites in the bigger picture

set fair between their couches and other dreams

and so

this moment in time is just an interlude

a duty woven into the fabric of responsibility

whence in truth all moments go

absorbed into “a life”

whose fragments are the working parts

of a mosaic

the carpet upon which we tread

it’s magic threads and woven messages

all ultimately left behind the door

darkness descending with the flap

the last post resounding on the mat

and emptiness obscures everything finally

all of those things we carelessly overlooked

those messages that were always in plain sight

gone from Welcome to Good Night




Camellia blooms lay

Like rosettes

Thrown away in pique

On the road-side verge

Adrift now and prey

To neglect. That long death

When colours go to grey

And lazy feet

Mince their soft flesh

Into the deep gravy of earth

But if you correct the view

That line of sight

Can be assailed by crisp

Tight buds and petals in their prime

And you might forget

That sense of loss