Old Crow


The sky is my bridge,
Quiet flows the streaming,
Unstoppable conveyors of
Gravitational dreaming;
It is the weeping way

Cool flints capture blues & grey,
Quick lime horse hair seashell towers,
Earth burnished, oak boxed,
Lay forgotten translucent flowers;
Feint madrigals breathe

Words are the falling leaves,
Blown over once green fields,
From mans twisting tree,
They slip & slide through nights sheild;
Between the blinding light

Old crow wisdom might,
Love lyrical orginal magic,
Scrape and smooth the sky,
Salving tears of the tragic;
Cross hopes running lines



A Bookcase

I have a bookcase.

It’s shallow, dark skined, breadth and depth holds the printed breath of passed ages.

Ecelectically upright, leaves open, ready reading

Adorned, once lovingly, with photographs of a lifetime, now slowly fade and gather dust.

Friendly faces smile out, paper thin, time stretched. A cat ‘King Willie’ balanced within an apple tree see’s me from his silvered frame. Babies beam. A bride flushed with a days pleasures.

A flat tin, marked ‘Gardening’, it’s contents sealed, sits where it was last placed. The mystery now lies in its next movement.

Silent faced mantle clock, tockless ticking in the drying sun, case casting seasonal shadows.

Eight leather bound and golden guilt gilded volumes of ‘The Great War’, whose contents could not ever be at greater odds. Quixotically tilting, tiny fingers of paper scraps mark pages once read.

A ball mask. A Greek vase. Tin boat. Plectrums. Finger puppet mouse, whose grandmother of pearl heart is pinned, sags to rest face down upon the dust quilted wood.

I hear the wind blow against the liquid glass. A distraction. I could swear the pottery hare blinked back


Random Poems

A hanging hand held song thrush,
Dry as dust blown half witted sage,
Earth bound legs knott-bolted & caged,
In shadeless thorn bush lands.


Immortality of Dust

Your clothes

Worn and warm scented life


               Carefully folded

       And placed with

Finality and love

                         Within the trunk.

               No spaces left to fill

       My fingers feel the mended seams


                 Folded interupted textures,

   Patched and cherished.

And I am here

And, you also absent are.

Two Beds


Two beds. Side by side.

A silence is settling. Particles of dust, speaking a language of a long played dance, slowly spin on long forgotten songs and rising thermals.

A pair of curtains, once vibrant, now so threadbare as to have ceased to function, catch the changes in the daylight. Simple, faded, yellow patterned. Seashells. Distant memories of aching arms once hung with the crumpled and crimped fabric. These thoughts now pass.

Two wooden chairs.


Upon one; Trousers folded. Patched. Braces attached. Shirt, one, white ‘ish with cuffs worn and sleaves rolled. Wool socks, balled, soft plug worn leather shoes.

A single exhillation. Felt but unheard. How many have breathed today into yesterday?

Lips that beamed potentials, now dry. Spoke words, joined two. Joined to. Journied far.

An arm lays out stretched, a hand, fingers reaching. But she went. So they cried

When. Long time gone. Passion and life spent in full heart and heat, impercepably cooled as all things do with ages infirmity

And those particles string us together for ever. Even more so now as we unwind.

A Pearl of the Light

She, a pearl of light
Lays upon my land,
Caressed within waters,
Drawn through times eye,
Arrayed in beauties cascades;
In cool or heated ferocity.

A wildernesses unfettered compulsions;
Loved at the smoothed shore,
Whispering iridescent
Wisdoms, frothed, and frozen.
And I, Pierced with imperfect salutations
See her.