Thursday, 26 March 2020

Black Haun an the Weaver

Coin spun the air aroon’t an fell on the blue tattoo.
Black Haun cleek’t his bluebird ower the silver’t nickel.
He bade Chaunce to spik afore the Law steps in
tae spik o gravity, averages, diminishin returns.

then there is mystery

then there is the mystery
of upward-falling rain
how eyes become prisms
bending tomorrow’s light

Monday, 23 March 2020


the bells ring for necessity,
crying from their hearts:
who’s there, who’s not,
who was, was never.

Thursday, 19 March 2020

in times of isolation

in times of isolation hear
lone strings vibrate feel
air on your face remember
the shape of crowds moving

Monday, 16 March 2020


wind blows from the east
(no longer an ill wind) and the west
discretely coughs behind its hand

Sunday, 8 March 2020

Friday, 6 March 2020


Was it sun in the pine trees,
or cypress branches feathered
under snow? or, in the frost,
hemlock needles remembering
lemon-scented spring-time?