Tomorrow’s News

The pieces fell together at random. Bit by bit, the parareal jigsaw took on vestigial shape. Only the key pieces were missing: the key pieces, always the ones which don’t appear right away.

Seafog

Seafog is a different matter.

It takes a strong wind
To drive it away offshore,
Across the pebblestone beaches.

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.