Sky #1



I take time to throw my eye up into the sky, notice that spill of air against blue, the cumulous, temper in the wind. Today the horsetail flume means change, I smell it, too, smoke hubris, arrow points of every drop of moisture up in atmospheric pressure to the north. The bearded gentlemen cirrus nod to high flying birds, speckles now on the deep horizon that mimic the patterns of their eggshells. They flit, strung on the possibility of their wings, beads along lines of air, catching the updraft and whorling there. My eye sees aquamarine circles, spindrift weather just water’s dance with heat doing laps from ice to liquid, liquid to steam. My eye fills like a pond and I drink it down to earth, noting the tang of grief that it all passes so quickly, so quickly.


Fragmentation or Self Portrait



I am the woman who walks

slowly, with a dying bird

in my bra.


there is flint under my nails,


a tickle ready to

laugh at the back of

my throat



with my snowflake fingerprints



and strings and strings of things I said

and didn’t mean


I am here in a stretch at the back of the calves

and open open open hearted


in this frame the blink, the

second then gone

like a child who no one

can ever find in the garden.

She was here: now she isn’t.

She was there: now she is gone.


I always note mournful colourless birdcalls

as if to say:

what if I’m only myself for the

second that you’re there?


with all those hauntings of dreams

among all the known landscapes

in the tingle of nerves at the centre of the tooth

me with a footfall light as pawprint


I am the one who is there in the night to ease the terror

of the dark

where we are all erased.

The Future is Sleep


pexels-photo-776291.jpegThe future is made of sleep. Soft cold set, stuff of drip down cloud effect, bottle body drowsy, chimed with silence, doused with absence. The future is made of the past – dropping into moment after moment. We will make no money, will take empty, flit high but lay low. Don’t tell me this is work – I saw her stiff and not asleep, her face the rigid calm of not being there and lying down on the cypress after her family sang all night for three nights and the monks had taken their robes and incense. We send kites into the sky, we send paper cranes into the river, we send poems into the void of technological advances, we send ourselves into unknown sleep, so deep it pays no dividends.

Green Tea


tea-farmhouse-hand-fresh-39347.jpegThe first is summer grasses

dewed up on the night’s breath

nectar of photosynthesis

sweet for a second before the

dryness tangs almost bitter

a switch lost in the heated cup

the the lips can only bear it

for the moment of the throat.


Imagine all those leaf-tips

tangled with winds

the anvil of sun floating them

closer to shaving

swift fingers pinch them from

nests of growth and they dry

lower their sunset

until they are deep green


a river of thirst themselves

waiting for the boiling.

Does the Ocean Sleep?



Waves glimpse

tremble. The afterlife-wind

picks up lasting speeds

to blurr the line of vibration

moving across water.

In and out is surely

inside and outside

passing the shore again as

the draught-tide commences and commences

– see there in hollow

a small pause between?



Internal Weather






These are the words we use when we

talk about how we are more than our bodies:

the terrestrial storms moving

beyond the immediate sky


heaping up and overthrowing the forecast

darkening with thick shadows,

bulking out wetness melt

in a song of vertical altitude.


Magpies umbrella fledglings with their feathers

as drops the size of rain

pelt the scape of the city’s ranges

a fine tantrum rendition.


How small are the beginnings?

Trigger neck bristle, the empty heart pump

forks to break the massive sky into segments

eggshell crazed and painful,


showing us we are chick small – from blue egged

nesting – needing the time for feathers

to alter ourselves into bird bomb razor;

to become weather itself.



Of course it’s raining and how, the world is full of water talk there is nothing else on the radio. Even the moon’s out this evening, looking casual in grey among the clouds and how the light changes in her eyes. On the ground, rain sifts itself, joins itself and parts again. It is so long in the making holding hands for a few  moments of fall. Then, good bye and into other arms.

The gurgle as it regroups, finds itself reunited all over the rooftops and then into the tanks. We have caught the rain, but only for a while. It will find its way away from our pipes and drains and channels, it will regrow the river, move the mountain, reach out its long tidal arms to try and embrace the moon. It is the hiss of static. The buzz that means nothing but rain on the wires.

The rain loves gravity, all these chemical force fields that we happily drink down and bring alive as we know it. One long branching. One long making water into us and then dispersing it again. Of course it’s raining. The soil drinks it down, the planet of clouds and radio waves with the moon hovering there like a luminous  shadow loving gravity more and more every moment as it bends light through the sea to make the colour blue, then throws that last raindrop into your eye.





You ask me what is it

this brittle I’m speaking of:

what is this short temper?

And I am cracking the colours

having broken the blue

I say brittle is like this

and the shortness in my own breath

shows me how long I have been wanting

that exact blue of your eyes.

The red is no better

run like the Rio Dulce into murk

nothing can save us now

the sweet scratch of your nail

through the hardening colour

makes red redder and the

small smile you give me

is as clear as the sky.

Then, yellow will not shatter.

Yellow will not yield

my thumbs are worn, nail bed

lifting from my scratching at the

yellow you say brittle in my ear

and I know myself that I shatter

in the the yellow centre.

We have found the colours,

collected them and grouped them

we made them run and spilt them

we have seen that they each will do

the thing they themselves dictate

being made waxy and soft

until they cool. Then they are

as crisp as the day

and as likely to crack into shapes

spelling brittle across the board.

You sisters take the round ones

and make marks big and small

over huge sheets of paper.

The spangled colours are

as mixed and sweet

as the lines on the maps that show the way.