It is awash

again, aiming

sunrise moonset

months then years,

gone into the sliding jaw mouth past

slipping water-like the falling.

Is it the photograph

stopping this moment,

or slowing

the bubble of that, or this,

bursting the passing


with its glassy lens-tooth

as if this could stop the flow and flow of it?

Days pass

with the claw and claw

as it trembles

but never slows

the tilt of the eye

the kink of the clock,

runnels of it through the evaporating mind

falling and falling

moonset, sunrise.

Nefelibata – Cloudwalker


She is there on the cumulous

white light crisp like promises of rain

further from the sky where she wanders

at the break between shadow and its other.

There are wisps around her,

the credible tremble, the hunt onwards

for the next possible, the lightning strike

the storm in the space she breathes, there.

She moves in on wind gust, balancing on cloud-thread

like that, a dervish or a spindle, a whirring

the woolly pillow of cloud into the long drops

the watery light falls through her fingers.

The ribbed pattern of the wind is the brush of her fingers.

The long stroke of the sky

meditation of dropping, the luxurious water.