late summer rain

first light through thin curtains
the dog asleep below

I am a part of all I see
part of this golden glow

the dog will stir and want his breakfast
and I have much to gain

if I now rise and walk the fields
before late summer rain

prayer of the heart

words said along the way

at the intersection

at night
through day

silent words
felt along an ancient way
before and behind each other word
I might think or say

through all the stations
of the day

no more in need of memory

my blister strip of pills
held like a rosary

ever with me
Lord grant mercy


when to that first thin voice

at the crossing point
I listen

before the house stirs
and the engine of the day disturbs

I don’t go back to sleep
but stand in this new morning
ankle deep

unremembering myself
and everything about me

despite the chill
the dripping rain
the first voice of the day
does not complain

unlike me
it does not have a name
on which to hang itself


I would go empty
into my father’s house

make my house empty
of all paraphanalia

clear books from the shelves
in the top-most room
where we ate the apple
core and all

I had a photograph on the wall
composed of sunlight

now there is nothing there anymore
but dust and cobwebs
all has changed

if I still drank
I’d drink your health
who said this world we make ourselves

then shamble up
to an unmade bed



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