Mountains in their nature’s state,
A single stray cheek hair;
Penetration was not sought,
Yet you’ve chosen to.
Giant bathroom crane-fly,
Brittle exquisite thing, here
Because I caught you.
Large dark clouds scurry,
Harbingers of change, through rains,
I’d return with you.
Even summer in this place,
Even sleet in June.
Life’s a trampoline,
Only mine is without springs,
While they’re all in clouds.
A demise requires its authors.
A house of lies
Outside my franchise residing,
Built by doubts in Spring.
The sky’s pods return,
Pregnant with thoughts
Born on other islands.
Fears anchored in thoughts,
Black waves move unseen
In the absence of moonlight.
Stay one step ahead
Of your destiny, let
Winter pirouette instead
From those black clouds.
Only here could you have
A lake with no name.
The wind whips the aimless moorhens.
The swan rises from its lake,
Hides its head in its wings.
I would seek shelter in the reeds.
Absorbed by my oracle,
Oblivious to the waves and the swans.
There are three worlds without mobile phones.
In searching for a deeper truth
I mow the lawn.
The aftermath, the scent of the cut.
Standing on a viaduct, midwinter,
It is only in jumping
That we break the fall.
There is a harp inside me
With no strings.
A frame without sounds.
A wind swiftly forms in my mind,
Like blood it then coagulates,
A cut in the sky.
You will not be the heron
Which stole from the pond
If you stand like a stork.
A watch in a drawer remains unworn,
Ticking to itself,
A million minutes unnoticed.
Pregnant with rain,
When will you fall?
Downstream, the moses basket
Of my memories,
Swaddled words within.
Wishes much like rain,
Held high above and in clouds remain.
Like a puppy
Quizzically toying with a moth,
Only under my own thorny paw I trap myself.
How soon the horses swoop
And with their hooves scoop
To snuff the fading candles.
I live paradoxically
With the tiring safety net
Of always demanding my own death.
I failed to feel the monumental self,
So into the vacuum
Poured everything else.
I gorged on my self,
And in gorging gouged myself,
The cost of eating at this table.
Like a clam in its briny shell
Relax in your world,
The tide returns regardless.
You will never see the same clouds twice,
Much as the thoughts of the hawk
Unfold in the minds of mice.
As the toes of the crow
Know the road ahead from its tremors,
So I too know these thoughts in advance.
That part of me still exists
Travelling on its own trajectory,
A lesson in chemistry somewhere else.
These clouds hold too much pain;
Sometimes, they overspill
Yet still, there is not enough rain.
For forty years I careered
In an ambulance
Through fields, across roundabouts.
Donald gave assent
For all American men to tower,
And grasp the assets of Melina.
All wars across all hemispheres
East and west, are made redundant
By the wars within my many heads.
The only wars across all hemispheres,
East and west, receiving consent,
Are within the scope of my head.
Autumnal sun outside.
I am in the room.
I am not in the room.
Autumnal sun outside,
And yet I still reside in winter
So pervasive through the years.
The thought of crows
From the cup of Autumn.
I saw a swathe
Of dragonflies, disguised in the eyes
The flood of our love
Opened its own levy
And covered the coots from above.
The earth revolving
Leaves my frame unstill.
What I want I cannot will.
Blanched the grave of affliction.
Fatherhood is dereliction.
Like tentacles in the deep dark sea.
My thoughts move restlessly.
Under ivy’s time
This landed wealth
Will be reclaimed by the progeny’s stealth.
The mindfulness tree
Seeks no help from me
To loosen its leaves in Autumn.
Deprivation’s brush is stroked
Over the limbs of the lessened
By those who should have known better.
The bruised eel-skin’s ballast
Is banged like a drum
Underneath surfaces where I am most numb.
Like scenes in a corroded film
I cannot control.
On the Crow horizon,
All fathers are guilty.
The sunset swings its pendulum.
I cannot tell whether the broom’s handle was wet
Because my hands which gripped were wet
Or because it was already so.
Hearse of the earth,
We carry our own demise
Beneath a wreath of oleaginous flowers.
My dreams create their own reality,
Mechanisms furnished independently.
Who then dreams of me?
The flood erupted in November
From the governess in the bothy,
The leaves should linger longer.
I saw a web of egos
In a rabbit beside the road.
A flash of slate grey into the hedgerow.
Swans pirouette above
The instep of my fretting heart.
The lake beats silently.
Perpendicular to me.
I have thoughts about not having thoughts.
The spring in the sky
And so I sleep.
As the molten moorhens
Are lured by their own gravity,
So I walk to the market.
Like a pod of whales
Wordlessly move beneath the surface.
A sink hole appeared
But there were no civil engineers
In this prefecture.
Three pied wagtails quarrelling
In a park filled with November rain.
I thought I saw a note where there was none.
Sluice through dreams with its waters.
Although the moon reflected in the lake
Ripples and moves
It is no more alive than its witness.
Blurred November prayers.
Nasturtiums merge and burn,
Melting on the table.
Goldfish in a tank.
Millions of years evolving
Dissolved for a minute of blankness.
I slip on the silk geese
Like golden gloves on my feet.
Swallows, swifts, flock in the east.
I skydive in my bed,
Dreams like earthquakes,
The onward rush of air.
Clouds of cuttlefish ink
Infused in the night ocean
Like a calming tea. And I sleep.
I can see a thousand green acorns
In my mind, but I cannot
See one oak.
The ebb and flow of our love
Unfolds like waves
On a shoreline near winter.
The sluice-gate opens
And words pour in,
So clear the Autumnal detritus.
Within a brook these words,
Like music, cannot be caught
By my cellular net.
Distant heartbeat of the earth,
The cosmos bronzes in the garden
And closes the white eyelid of Autumn.
Dog gnawing on a wicker bed,
Now as much as then,
Memory is life without end.
All roles are the same,
All words are the same,
It is the placeholders which can change.
In a library in Autumn,
The spines have worn,
Words left locked in the porcupines.
Low November sun opposes
The kitchen; outside frost froze the cosmos.
Reality’s edge is the knife’s horizon.