last call home

slow gulls hang awhile

the estuary’s glide,

silk sleeking dogs

dash as if on fire

sadnesses are left

tiny wreckages like

spilt parcels over-

looked by passer’s by

people wish on by

like fragments of rain

but are gone by end

of daylight’s wasting

“where i supposed?”, into

their stiff houses made up

of dusk there to pile up

past like pale companions

daily is shouldering us over

into that morgue of spilt

clocks, that hefty horizon

of ending is sure to come

there, unseeing begins,

trespasses inches not given,

darkens and upholsters with

night’s oil-of-ease-black-skin

half-hiddens almost greying,

narratives of squabbled songs

thinning into voiceless sleeps,

aren’t these cradles really coffins?

where stood has gone, pylons

stand fading mid stride where

the sturdy grasses worship

over each limb, stiff and vanish

up on her back the moon struggles

over the hill’s jaw lined silhouette,

where fox stealth is true no owl

can locate, deepness is assured

gulls have gone and the water’s all

sequins, the mouth’s silver where

the surf unfurls, all are buried in

their rooms deeply uneventful

unaware, today will not happen

again, the dew shapes itself one

final load of tears, sunrise done

for the last time






bare branches

i thought you

whispered there


tho frost

is frequent

i feel you wrapped

around my heart

it warms me

with sudden

mediterranean seasons

that stripped tree


cherry blossom

like tiny blushes

then that

song went

took the flowers

but left what it meant

the silence you made for me

twelve identical months i tire

of the clocks i have been,

twelve tears of torn time i

reside in, opaque rooms

are sobering sameness

reoccurring wrongness is

repetitive as march rain

and the wintry heart is

bellowed grey, garb the

stray mind bare with pain

eight years have become

cages where the days are

moaned and blown with

such copied skies, half a

life over nearer death’s elbow

the past doesn’t spare anyone

it spares no-one

time’s stealth


wasting another’s


i am am drunk with stars

and the bleak hollows that

follow each drowning, i am down

with the ditches that overlap loneliness

where the heart’s rare precipice

has it’s universe swallowed, so

blackly in there where all deafened

statues are fitful

achieved falling for ages where

free-fall is dripping bleak pollution

thru’ the soul, each hole each tidal

mask painful

outside is spun fingers, crippled wood

grasping, trees lose their nourished

fingerprints, lose waking and fall with


and the skirts that flounced where the

starved honeybee searches are fewer

and dropping colours to their deaths,

wreathes become of them

it was where sunshine was promised

but winter has its spite a whiteness

soon as ghosts light and sharp makes

air shaped, frost is about its arctic

about my blood

this feeling of being gutted whilst grey

has a cathedral-on-empty inside, and

where i stride or stay or stood feels

wrongs feels deliberate as dying

and the sky is mistaken -

bird song does not fit -

funeral scarves have -

obliterated the sun

atoms disconnect

the curve straightens,

silence loses prose

stillness shaken

where are those few days

where the bouquets grew

from such cadavers? why

doesn’t yesterday balm me?

“there is no soothe” shrieks that

someone full of knives

there are whispers that unravel, confused

as breezes, there are whispers that tear

apart from being read, why aren’t you

writing upon my sleep?

in delved roots i follow secure as quiet,

where does anyone’s shadow roam?

“nowhere” replies no-one

Make a free website with Yola