Highly strung

The wind is skeeting the tired tide,
the slow surface of low waves,
blowing it away from shore
in fast running sheets like hidden shoals
escaping the shallowing land.

Above, it seizes a sycamore tree,
lookout on the cliffs,
ballooning in its branches,
sending wild signals
with its blowabout hair.

The swifts are racing it,
tossing their bodies high
before they swoop to find its sinew.

It shakes and sifts the banked bracken,
whistling through grass
and nettle feathers at its edge.

The wind is highly strung tonight,
whirling skirts and stamping feet,
shape-shifting the landscape
in random acts of passion.


I am not chained to shore
but floating free on your surface,
tethered by your tide,
the sun licking my face,
the salt buoying me up
with the swell of your laughter.

I am a gull
hanging on your thermals,
high as a kite.
I am dissolving in you today
and will go which way
your wind blows.

I am clean with you,
stripped to bone and soul,
dripping with your delight.
You are so full
I might burst.

Lick me earthbound,
snuggle me soft as a puppy
asleep on your milk.


The sunlight falls,
flickers off leaves and fronds
of fern,
weaves patterns in the hedgerows
that guard the garden,
tumbles and teases the edges of shade,
the glade alight with it,
hugging the watching trees
that are icons,
the grass between a prayer mat.
I sit and soak in the sun’s syrup
as I lose myself
in the soaring sky.

The place changes,
lifts off from the physical, visual
reality of suburban plot
to become a world charged with the glister
of new-born buds, of ants
scurrying in the dirt, of God;
the invisible vigour of life’s longing,
the surging push inside cells,
inside souls, tingles in the air
like incense.

Wet weather

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

I am marooned
in rooms and busy thoughts
while spring slips away

I can only view
from a window.
Cowslips and buttercups
shine yellow
while the grass
shoots strong and green,
revelling in its muddy puddles.

Even the scent of the clematis
hanging over the door
dilutes in wet air.

The garden is exercising its right
to be wild,
not bow to my desires

but soak itself
in the weather
and let its roots gather
the profusion it craves.


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.

This is the cold breath of year
when days are dogged by damp
and dark,
when leaves fall and trees stand bare
and bleak
before the fallowing sun.

This is nature’s repose.

Let the roots that bind me
to the season
follow its call
into deeper paths,
finding succour in the stillness,
rest in the emptying days.