In the low tight soil

cramping out breath

sun watertight

stones as they landed

time ago

another tree grows.


The plane

so rampant

no doubt pressed against this clay

another leap to live

how it goes on

even when it’s over.






All night tiny hearts

on the roof, the stones rhythm

all over the trees and grass.


Was it you, too shy to knock?

But you run in under the window sills

finger your way down the windows.


The morning opened late and green

the flowers dewy and crisp

piled with moist and tears.


But, there were signs of you

trembling in the dark

dreaming up escape routes.

Black Hen


I must have believed that soupy death

all dark and dreamy with the precision of night

the cut blade of infinite was not for you.


Your feathers dusted up a grief I couldn’t place

in my child world right and wrongness.

The bite mark in your back was enough to let you go by.


I remember thinking spinach might save you:

these feathers so dark they were green in the dim cave.

I kept you alive for days, then death swallowed you,


much as my dog had wished to, when he bit down

through plumage and bone; the damage was done –

but I had to test if love could hold you


much in the way I saved selected snails,

spent tenderness on earthworms you – hen – would happily have turned

into part of you.  Your reflective eyes.

This Strange Skin


All gene ready

swimming fish in formation

this grafted river pool

this tide flow incredible

gulping like thick water

at the aperture

inky near black

minnows nip the muscle

all molecule.


Tide pull back

the deep breath in

drowning in oxygen

flip impossible

inverted completeness

all rib and smooth crackle

this life heat

push forward

into generation.


The rip and weep of it

the sonar

all alien melt water

all friction

this strange skin

presses the tide

pulse and form of it

river swell and sea weight

the hush and cry.




Before You Sleep


Let your ears listen out;

crickets strumming their bodies

a passing car

dog, voices low in the coming dark.

Between each breath a circle of quiet.

Let that stay there as you breathe in

in that round second

linger there and think of colours

in sunlit water

but do not forget to breathe out.

Think of fish, of the way they water-breathe

how they fly in their otherworld under the sea.

And of how your otherworld is sleep

as gentle as the leaves that are moving to the wind

or the weeds to the waves.

You can dive in now.

Or let your mind lie down

bring it in close to you and let your skin

hold it, like this bed holds you

or even the sea those fish we saw.

Feel the covering, your feet, hands,

each cheek and let your tongue lie still.

Can you hear the surf of sleep?

Can you smell the dreams you are going to have

or feel them warm along your body?

They will come for you, my love

and find you here.

The tide rises and rises to you.

Tuesday’s Poem

Poetry, Uncategorized

After the rain,

grass crickets

sing how drops sit

in memory there

on the blades.

Antidote’s boredom

flash the sound like

strobe ventriloquist.

How small those hands

reaching from pooled water;

how tiny the fingers of the rain.

And a million little fruiting bodies

hats, umbrellas, houses

only need the gift of water

to own the earth.

Beading now, drying

what becomes of the

rivulets we followed all day?

Down to the lake

where they hold  – fingers twining –

a disco of frogs.