The sky is purple

and a bird is singing like dawn

A streetlight is lit

The air smells wet

and birds are singing like dawn

The sky ahead is the colour of water

a dirty torrent obscuring the horizon

To the right, a lead blue evening

To the left, the colour of blueberry yoghurt


A late summer swelling sky

of angled admirals

and memories ringing like thousands of tiny bells.

Secret pools in the last weeks of a lifetime

lazing carp shadowing the shallows

Glurping in the rain


The night smell of wheat

baked to sweet dust

would remain unsmelt, were I not here.


Moisture and sweat, in stasis

And volatile tarmac greys

Resinous and steady

With cut conifer oils

Drying in the darkness


Wing of intent

Charcoal smudges cross the surface,

blurred amoebas floating over the half mown lawn.

The first geese casting shadows of autumn.

Thinking vaguely of formation

an aimless lost honk points them this way

or that.


Then five in jagged arc together

Steering with duck billed mutterings

crashing through arboreal gulleys

they carry heavy speed

lifting with whistling wingtips


And the trees sigh

As they pass by

Impatient for them to leave



Goodbye little house under the stars

and flashing planes

I spent the dawn through

out here, listening for the chorus.

I made a garden here,

now arching over the path in pinnate peering melliferous luxuriance.

What happened to those loves

who passed through me here?

Where the windowless shed shelters under iris and corn cockle,

in a dumbfounded gap toothed stare

back toward the dark empty lifeless



But emptiness erupts

Like shedding a weight and rising to the top

for breath

A life flashing through me as I rise

And memories pour out

like a burst paddling pool

greening the parched grass.

In mortal binding

Why should I save you?

This mayfly, flapping and wriggling like a fish of the air

made of lacework and tarnished copper,

in a web.

Why deprive a spider of rare taste:

this tiny dragon semi bound

by wing to frantic antennae,

crumpled by tenacious silk?


The finest thread of iron glue holds

as you struggle in fragile futility.

I can break the chain with a fine stem,

teasing from your delicacy

and you flicker up like a mechanical jewel

and into your short future.

Why have I saved you?