Monday, October 24, 2016


I cannot capture
the music of your heart,
the movement of the beat
is too fast for my soul.
The notes, too choirful
for me to imprison
with words,
run away
in shades of blue.
I cannot encompass
your melody
with a scribble on a page
or cage the crest
of your song.
My ears only
can understand,
my spirit pleasured
That’s the pity

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

I have words

I have words that flow like rivers,
words that breach the waterfall,
words that flood my page with colour,
and words that simply stall.

I have words of light and healing
words like angels of delight
and words of dark foreboding
ugly ogres of the night.

I have words that dance when spoken-
tarantellas on the tongue
and words that leave me tongue-tied
that always come out wrong.

I have words that blight and fluster
that only harvest weeds,
and words, despite their bluster,
generating more wholesome seeds.

I have words that wake my sleeping,
loudly shouting in the night -
dressing different with my rising
just a whisper in the light.

I have words that hold me captive
dungeoned  shackles that degredate
and gentle caring gaolers,
releasing words, that liberate.

I have words so warm and tender
they make the heart palpate
they embrace you with their splendour -
words that punch above their weight.

I have words of self-importance,
I have words of little worth:
words that tower up to heaven,
words that tumble down to earth.

I have words I should have spoken
but they somehow atrophied,
while the words that came out, broken,
are the words that still abide.   

There are words that need a sat-nav
to get you somewhere nice
and words that shouldn’t surface
if you’ll take my poor advice. 

Saturday, October 08, 2016

Season end

The voice of cricket is dumb
while the shades grow,
in deep mid off
and the grass begins its slumber.

In the outer field
a tree
plays wicketkeeper
to a redundant roller
gathering rust to its bosom
in the shortening days.

The next ball,
full tossed,
when the grass itself
wears whites,
will be
a snowball.

Friday, October 07, 2016

October cow parsley

These are fingers exploring the sky
as if by touch
they could adventure
Their messages to the future
released on summer breezes,
now they dry, brittle
the battles of autumn.
Now, prey for the spanning
of predatorial spiders,
they become
the spreaders of nets
and abettors in carnage.
Nothing remains the same
in the coming and going of days
for, touched by time,
we grow or darken
and our fingered forages
stain or colour
our eternity.