Sunday, 18 December 2016



This saint is a drawn figure in chalk,
smudging her way through yet another parable.

This saint is black rain in early morning -
makes the world shudder-shudder.

This saint sleeps through the day,
riding a cloud.

This saint has been advised not to use
the cycle lane at any time.

This saint crouches at the back of your larder,
licking salt from a cracker.

This saint is making snow
with his own bare feet.

This saint fails to languish,
learns the harpsichord eventually.

This saint minds the gap
in the wire fence of your dreams.

This saint collects sticks and twigs
for no reason but the joy of snapping.

This saint has watched you trap a bird
in the crook of your neck.

This saint etches a doorway into winter,
a thoroughfare beyond the seasons.

Saturday, 17 December 2016


Frosty (recent but not today)

They pretended the sea was just
over the hill, not far away.

The trees creaked like ships
and the pylon crackled.

The house was made of lichen and ash.
One good breeze and they had to

build it up again. It was not really
a house at all, more a victory

of shape and time,
a kneaded thing

held with frost and light,
just big enough for two and a chair

in the roots and brambles
forgotten by trespasses.

And the birds
circled and sang their praises.

Friday, 16 December 2016



A city of paint - egg yellows,
gargoyle greys, sugar pinks....

and paintings painted over,
so many layers like petticoats.

Faces almost faces,
a hand sweeping across a sky.

Quite lost in a maze
of backwater,

a scratch in wet pigment
never to dry,

candle-lit colours,
melding stairs to a river,

voices off -
a new coat of black night.