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.

The returner: 1.15am


We furred at the edges

have forgotten where we each end

in this cocktail of aching sleep and wakening.

There are times

when you wrench yourself from those

dreamless drifts of pure rest

to footfall your way

to the fretting

and I can lie, wakeful for your return.


Often it is my body rising me

the way a wave pulses to the shore

I go to the child, that child who has woken

with no covers, or a dry throat or a terror filled dream.


But have I told you how

I swim in our warmth

and it is like that comfort I can give

returned and returned?


(Concentric circles, a pulse of falling,

the moon’s shadow across bed.)


You are my home and my returner

even when we are pulled awake

here in these small hours.




The time filled day

plasters itself all over the body;

wears it like paper

frayed where it has torn.


There is the sweep of it

like the wind with its overing

and the broom with its hush hush hush

along the floor’s crevices.


Tidal with the moon and never

whiter than when it is

with its whiff of blanket fold

and the curve of it downwards.


It has loomed the blood

felted it with the gentle incessant rub rub

and now so fine thin

rice paper smooth; fragile.


Milked and trembling

the paper sky filaments

are all ready to rest;

moonbeam bones.





Rubs its black fur against the grains of light

that push and push then tumble

but no crash; just gentle call of crickets

that thicken the lines across their voices

until they make that blanket

we might call night.

Night doesn’t answer.

Even when the lids go down and the

cat prowl moon eyes the possibilities

from skywards

all akimbo from the trembling songs

the brush whisker

that silken paw.