Written Lines

Written lines collide.

The points they make,
Cheap ink meandering to a stop,
Stammering metre and ragged rhyme.

69th Parallel

Somewhere dead ahead
There is a line of cold
That breaks the heart

Without maps or numbers
I have travelled the distance
Between equator and pole

Where there are no roads
For the living to follow
Neither north nor south

Cloud Memories

The moon gibbous 
And above the hill
Rose in daylight
Like a wisp of cloud
With one hard edge.