©2013-2019
dog on the bed
like a polar landmass in the spring
I would give anything
to be like you
yours is an empire of the skin
mine the meandering way within
an island off the compass of the world
go howl your howl
let it be heard
[first posted 1 Jan 2017]
sitting on the bed
notebook raised to the rough angle
of the ridge opposite
where the orange cubes of a new estate
have sprung up against the skyline
I recall another time
I sketched houses in distraction
as one parent raged against the other
in the summer vacation
before they parted
I shouldn’t have started
the light diminishes – evening comes early
evening comes early to all of us
who dwell in the valley
[first posted 26 March 2015]
the day defaults
upon the dark trudge home
I turn my collar to the night
find no message on my phone
think of Robert Frost
as the last street light is passed
weigh good against indifferent
and find the case is lost
the day defaults
to nothing very clear
beyond a bowl of peanuts
and a glass or two of beer
but when I think back
put some distance to my sight
I find that in the darkness
came a different kind of light
[first posted 26 March 2015]
the time we spent together
is permanent
not to fade
for I wear you like a watermark
and sorrow
love’s stock in trade
bridge between two islands
a place of meeting
and of tryst
touching
and desiring
and doing without
things are not the same
now
I garden
read
never looking up
even at
a flutter of wings
then
to awaken
only
after the last boat has left
here
where each grain of sand is unique
and miracles unlikely
old man on the beach
he might have wept
nothing worth the keeping
could be kept
the house on the shore
stands empty now
a cupboard door
swings open
only the boat lies broken
not the ocean
there is no sorrow in my garden
only life and death
he disliked the coat he had been given
but wore it because he had no other
it had been made with love
and given with love
but only when it was worn through
did he learn to love it himself
I found an old jar in her kitchen
that for long had remained unused
it was like one I remembered from childhood
that I used to cling on to
the trees in my mother’s garden were many and beautiful
though she lived in a small apartment
by the sea
of the silent guest at her table
she would talk to her family
yes the trees in my mother’s garden were beautiful
but the jar
I threw into the sea
of the silent guest at her table
the sea has no memory
