Friday, October 12, 2018

Bush song

Bellbird is the sound of the bush
clear as air
sun soaked in trees
chime of streams and pools
damp earth, cascade of rock
lace shadows amid fans of light
so bright - while softly dark
Will I find a trail of breadcrumbs
a gingerbread cottage
witch in a furnace
leaves like broken glass
mouth-watering edges
glinting and crackling
the sharp call,
of temple bells,
cathedral of song

Friday, July 27, 2018

The Red Fox

See the red fox
bound over snow, light
sets his coat ablaze.

He is stealth among the trees,
through the silent forest,
silky, sleek, sneak.

He has sniffed out the hen house.
Plump chickens nestled among eggs and chicks,
crooning neighbours.

The fox tears the hen house asunder,
chicks and eggs his plunder.
Beware the red fox -
his names is Riven.

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Sliding to the Edge of Oblivion

I find the edges of you
rimmed with poison
to which I have no antidote.

So I curl
within my walled fortress,
trust no one.
All are flavoured with murder.

This is my truth.
A backwash of terror
impossible to flourish in.

Briny water that leaches soil,
kills all living things.

It is a song of life and death,
of love and failure -
a disability to thrive.

Crunched in silence,
searching for peace,
grains of murder roll through me -
a fascination with death.
It brings no comfort.

Your edges are rimmed with poison,
but I must taste them -
like a salt-edged tequila shot,
promise of oblivion.

I want to say that fear has no part of this,
but fear imbues every flavour.

I don't know if any of it matters -
the murder, the poison, the fear.

I lie here and watch another dawn show up
with her golden eyes and bag
full of opportunities for salvation.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Sometimes my skin doesn't feel like my own
I drift outside myself
black blossom
tinged with gold
inevitable rapture    

Saturday, August 12, 2017


It's very early Sunday morning.
Around me the city begins to stir
in the first pale glimmer of spring.
Your father is still in bed
trying to sleep away his broken heart.

You are all around me here -
hazy drift of breath on the chill air,
lavender wreaths of cloud,
trailed across the sky,
the distant woosh of traffic.

Geese cry as they wing
high above the slumbering rooftops.
Another day -
too beautiful for you not to be in it.

White Light

You're so far away.
I reach my mind for you,
and there's nothing.

The lines on the monitors
look promising, but they lie.
Just an echo of machines
they drift and fall flat -
promise broken, purpose lost.

In my mind's eye
you wake and rise.
Your eyes are full of life,
your faerie wings unfurl,
fill the room with blue sky
and sunshine.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Babies & Gardens

You have to have somewhere quiet
to leave the world –
It's the hardest thing

to share an idea,
reach understanding
with others.

I have a voice –
very small –
only heard in quiet places.

My mother would say, when the children cried,

I always used to take you into the garden when you cried.
The peace of the garden would calm you.

I tried it, and she was right.
I was so surprised.

The things I have to say are simple,
but they are everything –
a universe of stars –
and how we fill the spaces between them.

Resist - that TV/shoe/phone.
What do I need them for?
To breathe?
To eat?
To light the candle of my soul?

To fill the hole
Where God used to be?

Take your babies into the garden.
Share with them the summer’s eve –
the dark soil and how it cradles and feeds the seeds.
Show them that this is what sustains us.

This is where life begins,
what we need to feed our hunger -
what Nike iphone Apple 
can never replace.

I have a voice –
very small.

It needs a quiet place to share with you –
communicate –
try to understand –
we need the peace of the garden to hear.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

The Flame-haired Boy

The flame-haired boy
lives his life like the strike
against a tinder box,
ignition of a match head -

He bathes in the rocket's red glare -
where and when unimportant,
just a howling flight
through darkness.

He's not afraid of an apocalypse
he dreams it - inspires it.
He is blinded in his own light -
a faux-Christ -

his salvation is a fire pit
of self-righteousness.
He thinks to save us
with the purification of fire -
but he will burn -
and all the world with him.