Winter song

west hedge october morning mist

Blue as the veils
of flute and clarinet
this cold sky

washed clear
singing with the bells of winter

the rhythm called
by hoofbeat
and the woodpecker’s cry

misted pearl
the snorting breath
of russet running things

my hands clap
to the crisp crack of leaves
beneath my tread.


The wind blows

The wind blew and blows still,
showering the field with golden leaves,
moaning like a lost train in the unlit dark.

Stove hums in flame tongue,
incensed with wood smoke,
where cats curl.

We talk in soft voices,
unwilling to disturb the humming, flame-tongued air
or the music of the stars.

Eggshell blue




blue as the shell of a bird’s egg

curved smoother than pebbles

in a riverbed


untroubled by clouds


redolent of ocean spray


sky arcs

an eggbubble

protective casing


stretches above about behind

and beyond is the black

the deep and the dark


where cats’ eyes of stars

stare blandly at the bird’s egg blue shell

silent as an empty nest.

Another element


Many fingered like the sea

a heaving mass beneath the coping of the sky

sopping up the clarity with spongy paws


it wrings sweat from the veiled air

puddled in vague yellow unclear green

dripping dry and crisp beneath the tread


this heat slows the workings of the world

like syrup in the wheels and cogs

silencing even the irritable crows.