Take this morning

Take this morning.pic


A crow, darkly black, sits

on the red, rigid beam

of a child’s playground ride


A herald to rise

on a spell

mixing colour in the air


Sleek form glimpsed in a dazzle of blue

from the sheen on those wings

stealing away


Leaving static the surrendered plaything

for a mother to push

later in the day


Casa Batillo, Barcelona


a silhouette misty cut

in darkness out of light

on a shelf is night


from the flat body

with holding dreams

eyes see


and no star

is a vision

but the diamond black


where pinkness

pervades my window panes

making chilly contours


how the evening red


night can hold fire




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

Mixed Doubles

Face Off

Mixed Doubles


I take pictures. It’s what I do. Then they sit with me. A living history. Fragments of time I have consumed, shared and stolen. It is a privilege to have these moments at my command. I don’t wish to waste or abuse them. The element of trust is implicit. I honour these people because they have shared a stage with me. These are fractions, splinters of innocence.