Thursday, 30 March 2017


Sun rising
Gone in a morning
Noon’s short-shadow light

Mid-day waning
Whispers in the afternoon
Till twilight comes

People Rise Up

People rise up.

The tide in your affairs
Is a full sea flooding
To fortune
Or misadventure.

Cold House

Time leached through these walls, left fragments of history traced
On scarred woodwork and the brittle rags of furnishings;
Time’s passing left echoes behind the skirtings, tiny noises
Like an infestation of lost days and dismembered moments.

One hundred and sixty years have been buried
In these stones, under these planks and boards;
The rafters and beams creak beneath the weight.

Plaster cracked and crumbled; door-frames buckled;
The doors themselves warped; locks loosened and the wind
Rattled them, then swirled in eddies round the empty fireplaces.

Last Snows of Spring

In the sky, the wind is like an arrow,
Clouds cross it like fog shredding
And the blue, cracked and hard, cold,
Like the surface of ice when sun shines.