Spun Out

The bowler has it now, spun and thrown to the sun,

to fall to a practised hand: turning, turning.

When he bends to run he sees nothing but the flight

of a ball he has yet to bowl; sees it sear from the hand,

all swept light and then swerve and dip, the seam proud,

tearing at the earth, the off-stump uprooted, spun back,

the long follow-through, the caps thrown in joy.

How it would be, if the mind would clear, the fingers unlock.

How it is when it does not, the mind a pincer on the body.

How it is now, fingers in spasm, the dream running out the arm

evenki: the last speakers

evenki: the last speakers

dedicated to the evenki people of siberia &
speakers of the evenki language

the silence hard upon me now
last run of a river forgotten
last hunt of the bear
long rolled over
into earth
last story
of the tongue
that calls
out to
those of us
long gone

we are the last speakers.

children grand-children
lost to the cities
that tear away
at the waters
rip down
the holding back
of trees
that frighten
the bear
dynamite fish
in the soaring
quiet of the sun
on a valley
of fir trees
the river a cold vein
of vanishing ore
between them
the firs
darkness in the morning
darkness in the noon
lit trunks in
the evening
slip of sun
down between them

we are the last speakers.

the natural breath of our stories
broken into pieces for
another tongue
a subject of
underfunded study
the long root of
our tongue
cut dead
the stories wither there
our fathers’ fathers told
the crackling sticks of breath
they burned on hushed long nights
under the shadow of
the hunted bear
the beat on the broad skin drum
as the shaman rode
the bird of the hand’s
shadow into the
smoke through
the gap at the peak
of the frame and
skins up
to the stars
brought us down
a difficult, bitter

man was i-le*
the sound he came as in
our legends our firelight
telling of the start
of the dark woods

man was i-le
i will not know
another man
as other word
the man of
those who rightly
buried the bear
honoured every
single bone
the tooth and hide
of him

the man was i-le
who left
the dark woods
in tact keeping
first meat for
the fire, and
blade to himself
in respect
of all that wandered
on the evening
moving among
trees, slapping
the waters a sound
above their run
the crossing
of animals, or

the fingers were u-mu-ko-shor
fingers that played
the breasts of
my young wife
that tightened in
the hunt that
gutted fish
that stole
a drum beat
on the sacred
skin one time
and dreamed
a nightmare of
hot stones in my
gut my mouth
sewn closed

i will not take
the root of this hand
and put it into
the well-meant
glove offered
me the
pension of another
tongue* paid to
me at the
killing of
that my own
our own with
little else
left to us.

we are the last speakers
having spoke.

july 2009

*The pronouncations of ‘ile’ and ‘omukushor’ were as phonetic as I could make out from the Russian website where sound bites of the Evenki language were posted.

*that is, the Russian language.


How Do I Love You

I suppose when I stop and give thought to those things
that as poets we all write about
Over arching it all and I guess rightly so
Love’s the number one theme without doubt

Interesting the way, we as poets create
shaping art through our thoughts and our dreams .
When I read all those wonderful poets who’ve now gone
They were also inspired by this theme

Inspiration will always use love as a basis
for creative people to use
As a way to explore, to aspire, to achieve
We could ask for no greater a muse.

I’m not bitter about love, in fact I’m a fan
And forever a fan I will be
I’m really I guess, just a weird poetess
who passionately dreams to be free..

Shifting Light

An oblong of pale light

at curtain’s edge, a

shifting frame.

It is a window of hope;

I am darkness in the night;

shuttered and cosseted

with febrile spun mind.

I watch street’s light shift,

oblong’s lines drawn anew –

and I am in that frame,

a release, a gasp of air.

Far away, sounds of the night:

a scooting car, a whimper.

Here there is nothing;

grey lines on a wall; the

pain of eyes wide open

something new

I long for you

in winter, sing

of fall in spring;


head south, north;

by north; west

across continents,


the oceans of

india, arabian

seas. I was


a sailor, Trojan

slain; and from

the remains a Roman


soldier in the days

of Etruscan Kings.

Perhaps i


next time re-live

this my town

these last 20


years; submit

to some two

hundred bars and


a museum, turn

that into art,

again, i want


out of it, til

then i won’t

rest, haunting


the stairs, thinking

always there’s

something here


i’ve missed, face

pressed to the pane,

passed the slate


roofs, the rain-

laden evergreens.

As the sparrows


in the guttering

sing (?) i think of

nothing which is


all one to me.


11-12 September 2015

Face The Horizon

As snow does to a fire your lovely outstretched feet does your white gown;
arching the marvelous song he trembled to feel
like dragonflies heading to be framed by a small glow of light!

It droop’s her pale flower like cheek she dreams with.
Them with a cloak of ignorance, they laugh at the sky.
He has murmured its ballad amongst great conquering eyes.
Studded black through this horror of space.

And he faces the horizons in the sacred woods
his little black gloves rest inside her hands of white skin
next to the flow of the murmuring waters river

He no longer felt himself, and distances himself from that time,
now they bath in knowledge of the skies, and its silver waves.


She waits patiently

She waits patiently,
There are no tears,
In the pale light of dawn,
A low hanging moon,
Gives consent,
To a tentative sun,
Their light mingles.
The silver becomes luminous,
Colour is born,
The air thick,
I can spread it on my bread,
At once warm and cooling,
Carries a tang of sea,
A hint of cool brine,
And she waits patiently,
For a lover?
A child?
An arm full of flowers,
She has more grace than I.

hymn of the soul pearl

hymn of the soul pearl
to Robbie Louis Stevenson, inspired by his story ‘The Beach of Falesá’

i shall
make for the
islands when
my days are
only afternoons
cloud banks low
on ocean
only there
with a sun’s
fall remaining
to the hour
shall i find
calm faced
on all points
of desire’s compass
with a vastness
of equal measure
to the unknownness
of this self

a little land
in a great sea
enough to gather
sticks dry leaves
of outlived seasons
to burn in
dreaming flame
to bolster light
in the murmuring
darkness of the
sparks lifting
cobra-wise on the
smoke into that
darkness above
resting on darkness
below like a shell
closing on the
soul’s pearl
safe at last
till dawn’s
new opening

three kings plaza
11 december, 2014


Those who do evil,
In Gods name,
Are deceived,
The proof of the fruit,
Reveals the root of the tree.

There are amongst us,
Those who would perpetrate monstrous acts,
In Gods name,
Proclaiming God to be great,
Whilst destroying,
Those whom God made.

They are deceived,
The fruit of their deeds,
Reveals the root of the tree,
From which they feed.

The Shed

Beyond the clawing lace webs of spiders, secrets crouch.

They are on dusty leaning-down shelves, in the shifting light of a far corner.

Who comes here, past the red iron flank?

Secrets come. This is where they reside:

In the twitching summer light, peeking through boards.

Come feel the dirt floor against your skin.

Sit in the corner and weep. Stand in the shadow and howl.

Seek the light, the quiet corner, the dusty chair.

Close your eyes. Listen.

It is the footfall of time, a spider at work, a mouse in his hole.

It is your imagination, the flick of a bird.

It is the laugher of children, the awful sob of love lost



The Path

A path was cast aside for your arrival,

I was preparing our sanctuary amongst the burning flowers,

They flare and smoulder into smoking ashes,

Lost days thoughts are the language of our dreams,

You ignited the weapon in me amongst other delicacies,

I’ll still rise with a roar, rage and omit it all,

The grinning devils underneath the shrubbery,

Knew the score and how I felt exactly,

What they did to you was a set move quite frankly,

Its how they work, calculated and deviously,

Consequences didn’t matter to me,

I could smell the darkness of incense and its insecurities,

I wished for a bell tower and rifle to accompany me,

I went for a walk to dispel my anger then I saw some graffiti,

Under an arch of a railway bridge next to a stream “love has no ending to me”,

A voice loomed from the adjoining trees,

Sent a shiver up my spine reminding myself how dangerous I used to be,

Where ever I see a wild flower amongst the pale green grass it reminds me,

Of the fabric of blue squares of that path made to bring you towards me.

Love Cats

He figured she must be the same as his last cat                             two-cats-love

Had often strayed as a kitten

But hadn’t been given full satisfaction

He was going to make her feel like the sun

Take her all the way there and some

Give her burning eyes whenever she saw him run

Rock her in his arms until she slept

Protect her from any threat

How others would stand up to take notice

Knew what to expect

If they dared to go near their nest

He’d breathe her every word down deep in his lungs

Follow her adventures climbing furniture

Massage her paws whenever they hurt

Brush her fur when she felt inert

He’d point her towards each sunset

Tell her he drew it for her

Tell she was equal not his pet

Love is not love when it comes to cats

But these are loved cats

Love cats

Love cats

Love cats.