now gone

along the dripping alleyway I often walk
I thought I saw your face imprinted on the wall
and when I thought of her who once sat at your feet
I felt myself absorbed by indescribable peace

now gone

in particular

where are the waters that lead me to rest
your voice in the morning
your foot on the stair
a chair by a window overlooking
no place in particular

your book on the bed
here beside me

you reside with me
through all times


uncommon prayer
bedtime story for the sick at heart
dog sigh on an unmade bed
at eventide

unquiet prayer
while children are still heard
in summer gardens
women come no more to offer comfort
or laughter

unholy prayer
full throated
now my visitor from the trees

fall away

bring sleep

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



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