A leaf fell from the trees

Lonely a road cold
Leave the critics to their retorts
This is no scripture
No ancient Latin definition
It’s a story of how they met
For the rest of you this is where it begins
She sits with an apple
Entices the serpent
The boy will follow
Biting into her neck
She eats the freshly picked fruit
It’s crisp, juicy and grown with care.

It’s a firework that burns with serpentine motion
‎We will ignite the sky with reports
‎Dazzle it’s story upon the trailing sky
Confelli will drop floating to the ground beneath us
‎Only if……

on poetic composition

my word isn’t blood or milk

spilt or symbolical of it.


i’m cut by what’s

remembered, what is not

& the gap, a flat windy lot

that rings like wooden chimes.


for days, as mice play in the cracks

between my toes & fingers,

i lie in the hollows or high

billowing like wheat the colour of hair.


there’s nothing to it – the massive meditations

of sky & mountain

where i hear myself, think.

Still Loving

The quiet eye


our ankles,

soft against

each other;


idles in

the under-

ground tavern

I sweep

in my mind,

deep into corners

and back


the wall.


I see


and heavy

jaws of the dark;

a few words

sifted, careless.

I’ve seen them.


I’ve seen you,

fly into a

man’s eye

and out again;

nearing the rope

I keep

in the cupboard.


Distant now;

a thousand

coloured balls


across the



Out of the room

I see you – white;

splash a bee

on the brick-work,

kick on your back

and see me

at the window.


14 February, 2018

the doctor will see you now, Mr Lazarus

tonight, rain; the white

flap of pages



the winding of the stairs



to sleep of this, the roar

wheels. of sea. so wild

to think it.



to understand.


a place to go/

crave/ to hold the still

beating heart.



Horror. Slept 9 hours. Rib

cracked, head trashed of its

contents/ was I thinking/ to let

my guard down, sink, be filled;

fall beneath you, everything;


& after the rumination of toast w marmalade –

think. Not think but something akin to it,

like you’re setting cushions on the sofa;



& with the house quiet like this,

it can be done. The workers out back

are cool, w their chatter & the clunk

of wood on concrete/ feels

like the world is born, dreams

unwound; slowly lived thru.


You might trace

the eye-sockets

of enemies


settled in the folds;

curious samples of feet

– the duck


or elephant tramping off

the hem of the cliff.

I loathe a modern home


set to cream on cream;

a sterile soap pinching

corners; eyes have


no place to comb.

I like these cheap hotel

designs; the remnant bins


a hive of animates.


5 February, 2018

Sunday Float

Hungry for this seal at the ears,

I roll in the pool.


It’s long since I shut you out,

tipped my face to the sky

and swooned.  I hear


the dry spheres of my breath.  Only,


under me: the avalanche aisles

sweep; and the graze of the whale,

less ethereal in the flesh of open sea,


terrifies – sepulchral, and metal-grey.

I remember now, it broke skin

to the left of me – I wasn’t afraid


but that was a dream; the symbol:

life, conquered there

at the strange pier;


and me in the water – bleak as it was –

without blood.


February 5th, 2018


on organised religion

Christian, muslim, jew – god is

(let us grant it) but not how you mean it.

Is perhaps but as an abstract, not

a real person, a prime mover,

an architect, actor, an interested

party; a master of history

traversing the linear time-line

from zero to eternity.


There’s no such god.

When I was in Christchurch,

this guy was handing out leaflets.

I handed mine back & he said,

‘He’s up there watching us’.

I walked on, said nothing

but it came to me later –

what i should have said was Liar!


Because it’s true: there’s no excuse

for not knowing.


Who gets to write the end line

in our poem; to lie, at last,

suck their wine by the pool

when all the chores are done?


No-one sees the masterpiece

hung but you kneel dutifully

to swallow bread. Like a girl

or a good boy should.