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

the old coast road

and there were many buildings and temples
and who is to say which is false and which true
so I kept going along the old coast road
in the hope that I may find a way through

for once more would I visit my father’s garden
and stand among the olives and the vines
even though I am old and weary
what is his is surely mine

so I keep going
where there are many paths down to the sea

for along this old coast road
there is one
that may be recognised by me


when the day comes
it comes from nowhere

even to those who wait

yes she said
a thousand times yes

but once would have been enough
to last for ever

and when the women came
they found the door open

and the room filled with light
for she had risen

and gone to the market
where they sell fresh pomegranate



parakeets in wire cages

on the library steps

softly the waves lap

you were waiting
on the library steps

when least expected
but not forgot

for whom I threw away the trinket
of great price

you hold it at your breast

soft as water

hold the light

as I search the whole world over
for comfort

to comfort you have come

love quickening out of silence
to split wide open

and recover all that I am