A morning climb

To perspiration peaks

Chinks of chestnuts

Then gravity

To berries and buckthorn and breeze

And a trail of sterile smells

On smooth steel rails


Through stale green woods

Chalk castles and cuttings

And cracking green domes

The Channels sweet nothings


The bright and the height

And bamboo flight

Of clay curtained windows

Stationed words of light

And distant vision

Hiding in plain sight

I’m up in the straight trunked cherry tree

That no one else can climb

It stands like a flamingo,

I swung up like a monkey

And, buried in ice cream blossom

I’m hiding from my brother

But he went inside long ago

To read a book

If flints are people with problems

Then the watch is a ticking time bomb

And if the bushes are an approaching storm

Then the paths are borders of a kingdom

And if the scaffold keeps the edifice upright

Then the pine is an old man in his youth

End of the Road

A voice of beauty

opens the hidden door

to a theatre of lime light.


The month’s warmest wind

caresses the tree lit darkness

and carries away the days

on the bow waves of autumn