Tuesday, November 25, 2008


She has a gold hand
and a silver hand.

One holds the day star,
the other is the moon.

Light bleeds from them
in fans and barley twists

of alternating colour
spinning day to night

then flickering back again.
As though she weaves

the passage of time
through her fingers,

as though the tips of her nails
are shining crescents
on the soft cusp of dusk.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

my poems in ebook form:


Thursday, November 13, 2008

In memory of Nia Glassie

There is a child crying outside
the wail rises
knocking finches
from the dying branches
of the old elm in our yard.

This is the weight of a child's cry,
heavier than a finch,
harder than bird song.
It scalps the trees
and drives birds to flight.

Why then
am I so afraid
that it will be silenced.

Chris Never and B. Moon