Dunadd

In the dead eye of winter
When you sought a place of vantage,
Shelter and strength you built into stones.
On a fastness of rock
Over marsh and brack you held dominion,
Watched without rest from a nest of slabs,
Let none assail the fortress of your night.

Not There

I had
So little time
To look for missing things,
Small things mislaid, as long-lost
As the faded memories
I have of them.

Not A Day

This is not a day for poets:
Its endless, rythmless hours
Break over us in torrents;
Incoherent and dissonant.

Light and Ash

These are the times

Of the one white light;

These are times
When the source

Is more important

Than brightness,

Where those of us

Caught in the glare

Stand dazed and dazzled,

Casting pitiful shadows.

Inscribed

An intake of breath;
Inspiration;
A sigh,
The words of which,
Whispering and new
Hang like fog upon the air.

Sound rises
Out of silence;
Sound, shaped by utterance,
Speaks or dumbly rejoins it.

Reach

Glisten,
Like love made.
Coagulant bodies slide
Upon the coming dawn.