Mare Marginis

Was that not it? In our formative years,
Hardly begun when the old men settled
Into wistful jingo (having never had it so good),
Time wove its spell on them, drew its veil,
Washed us all in their cold water tomorrows.

Woodsman

I made my path following rutted traces
worn by feet neither mine nor yours
through blown and bending grasses.

Hospital windows

Hospital windows
reflect an iridescent sky
as colour turns to darkness.

pale shoots now growing

Tree

A tree I remembered, once tall,
with a limb severed by frost
and felled by a sudden wind,

saw change in the woodlands,
creep among the shadows,
and rise in the dawn like the sky.

The tree and its wound stands yet
with its broken branch beside it,
like a post, upright in the heather.

© BH, 2022

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A vignette. A fragment. A couple of days in hospital with a cheap pen and borrowed paper. I was channeling something naturalistic - as you do six floors up in a side-ward, on meds and waiting…