Breaking on the stones

It is the night
before Easter,
the night
of the waiting day.

We are in the body
of the dark sky,
its breath
is cool on our skin.

We are walking
on the earth,
walking on the bones of it,
through the dark dunes,
through the quiet of them
towards the angry surf.

The sea is breaking on the stones,
breaking on the stones
over and over.

The roar of its fall
fills the shell of the sky,
fills the ear of our bodies.

We stand in its call
until we can hold
the force of it,
until it finds an echo
in our silence.

Wet weather

The rain
has taken my garden,
folding it soft and wet
into grey arms
and closing me out.


This is the season
when time dips its wings
and calls back its black shroud
of night,
tying tight corners around
the wuthering day,
the muted heart.


The rain is steady.
Grey holds the day
between its cold shoulders.
Time is slowing
as leaves sow themselves
onto the ground,
waiting to turn into earth again.


The sun is a bowl
holding heat on my skin
like love,
soaking into my bones,
into my mood
like balm.