snowflakes flutter to the ledge
as I sit in darkness
awaiting the mystery of the dove’s descent

your face drops in instead

the bell tolls thirty minutes
my time is at an end

sacred or profane
it’s all the same

love is all there is
an unseen flame

binding us all
to itself


you wrote your name in the palm of my hand

and laid the cornerstone
I threw into the lake

it sunk so deep
we haven’t found it to this day

though I never tire of looking

like your book
that I drowned in the bathtub

(I am so sorry)
but it never was the same

after that
it says I’m writ in the palm of your hand

and the rock that was laid for us that day
can never wear away


sunlight on an empty vessel
in the deserted house along the shore

only when I am like that empty vessel
will I be ready
for my guest to call

when the wind and the sea and all the landscape
know me and recognise me
as one belonging

then – only then
will I be ready

for the coming

lost for words

on the morning of my death
the birds will sing

like they sang upon the morning
of my birth

it is the middle of the night

in which case
there’ll be nothing to be heard

except the song of silence
in my soul

a blind man
in the middle of the road

dazzled by headlights

Love lead me home

yellow book

here is a book of colour
white or yellow
for those who cannot see
with eyes to see

such is faith

when all our darkness finally drains away
what will be left

here where the doors don’t shut
and nothing works
for very long

when the room that was full to ceiling
has been emptied

and all the colours of the field amaze
then sing his praise

who came to show the way


we find his presence
in his very absence

which is everywhere
except for here

and now

the one place
we may ever hope to find him

and never thought to look


yellow book

on a white shelf

in morning sun

I pick it up
and read from it
when everyone has gone

don’t worry
in what you have begun

yellow book

white shelf

morning sun

a good spot

the library corner in the new house
is a good spot for meditation

from my chair I can see
a spire rising up between trees

assuming it to be a place of worship
I wondered what denomination it might be

then I was told it was the spire
of the local shopping centre

but it makes little difference to me
it’s still a good spot for meditation

still a spire rising up between trees


come home
to where you are needed
we have left your old chair
at the water’s edge
still waiting

remember again the place of your making
long since forgotten

your father’s face
remember your home

your mother’s terrace
where you sat alone

watching for tears on a weeping fig
that she left in a pot by the door

a place at the table
kept down the years


all has been left
wide open

hart song

I went hunting the hart
but the hart I did not see

except for one sweet moment
then only fleetingly

this lonely life is brief
and then to be at peace

I went hunting the hart
a hart too quick for me


they are giving me something now to help me sleep
sink deeper in this avenue of angels

in the heart of the terrible absence
we are done

we are unbegun

and our lives do not belong to us at all

saints and angels come