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



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