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 Cloud Parade


they are so buff

the light the shadow

the definition of them

crowding to bulges skin cannot know

tempting the magician in all of us

to say – I know, ididthatonce.

but it would be a lie

because the way they gain weight

and sturdy their tendons

is octopus swivel territory

through a loop in the wind they are

parading until they need to cry



When I was a child

it was always autumn;

with the rain and fungus

the fruit and promise

the leaf-mould and running gutters

where fat worms wandered

through the clear as light water.

Once there was a frog,

grey and spangled at the thigh

exact yellow, exact black.

It would rain and I would wait

in the car and try to count

the droplets forming on the window

as they ran together like so many memories.

The cold would come and stalk

the stars at night

and in the morning we’d fog our laughing breath

and laugh at its whiteness

and how it came while we weren’t trying.

Exact fog white, the crispest kind.

In the afternoons we’d forget our woollen jumpers in the leaves

and traipse around at dusk

looking for that yellow cuff

in the places our games had travelled us.

We’d fill the green bucket with apples and

spend the afternoon cutting our woody

homegrown windfalls

to make jelly,

fingers were slit

and the blood was exact.

Strangely familiar

and unknown.



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.

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.

Like Air


From here you can feel the cold breast of the sky

if nursing here the runnels of rain

have been sucked dry and any warm frames of light

succulent like honey barred beams

dried into powder themselves;

a day bees hate, with grey dissatisfaction

they fluff their buzzing bodies and frown down the wind.


But you, having nursed and found the fire’s warmth

in your bones you have no word for afraid

or refrain no other state than barefoot

even in the mud that licks you as you would lick the rain

and stick wet coldness

will fall off you

like air.



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.