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.

These days


It should be enough the sun

the languid whistling of the birds

heat rising from baked earth and green shimmer


enough to rise with the heat

on birdwings lifting languid and serene in the sun

from green earth


they should be green with birdsong

these hot days dusty

with harvest motes floating golden birdwings


there should be joy after rain shafts

slanting steely cold

from lowering skies


when we listened to the rattle of hail

the splash of torrents

and a wind raging from the east


it should be enough the sun

the unconscious beauty of the warbler’s song

the ripple of heat breeze and leaf hiss


but these days it is not enough

to lift the heavy wings

the flutter leaden with rain

and all the little sorrows

sing soft and low.