A honey bee has landed on my pen. It walks inside the cave my holding the pen makes, pushing its triangle head between the fingers the way small dogs burrow after objects meaningful to their ways. I was wandering the late morning where the river and the sea fill looking for clues to validate, or…
Month: December 2018
at the roundabout
but in the morning, when flowers animate your hand doused w rain or late when the sun slants on cattle clumps by the powerstation – ! tonight, a dust mite between penstro/kes hesitates at the o-k like it has a basic thought process – mine for instance when i bathe, sweep the floor &…
cafe mariner
cafe mariner with apologies to Samuel Coleridge at a distance catching sight of him in a plastic chair at the cafe his eyes were looking further than any sea you might have heard of the man with salt on his breath and seaweed in his hair dreadlocks i thought at first then smelt the…
nature boy
me & dave king beat up these guys who threatened us on tennyson rd which is wy no one turned up at your 7th, he said. i didn’t get the connection but didn’t press him cos he was drunk & said he’d had another shot in the eye & it hurt. took it hard at…
Cricket Moments
Ken Rutherford, with so much time elegant, chanceless the ball riding the grass. Mark Greatbatch arching up and away a catch against a heart-break sky Martin Crowe’s pull so strong Henry Blofeld could say only: “Oh, my word’’ Australia needing 117 de Villiers, eyes burning, arm pumping. 6-43. Or The boy no one wanted to…
marshals
marshals these the minutes blackbirds marshal evening from earth and air oversee it from branch guttering and gable, on lawn and verge see it in until not seen within, released from light, primed neat in dark they wait the dawn dusk, 15, 18 july 2018
The Lighthouseman
Of all buildings, give me a lighthouse. Let it be on a promontory, lashed by the sea, at the end of a winding path. There will be a man in a sou’wester, his face set against the weather, hand cupped over knowing eyes. Peering, peering into the night’s fury. He will stand on a thin…
from: A Man Facing Funereally Traditional Reflections
rain fell overnight. the sea is flushed. the darkened room in the bird loud dawn is cool with fresh oxygen tasting of wet long grass at back fence on hill side. the sea and the shore the sound of two fine sheets of sandpaper. like opium, and dating, I’m being absurd, it is useless, like…