Something lost

Another through the window poem for dverse and a particularly strange cloud formation.


Days begin

sun-faced and dew-bright

beneath the swaying flowers

but night shadows remain

knotted in deep roots and matted stalks



a sounding board bounces echoes

the silent spread glitter of stars

sun on water

watches but doesn’t listen


only the clouds brood

bringing rain or dragons

and the proof that time passes

drifting from horizon to horizon

dawn to dusk


dropping scales

gnat swarms


on ships that pass in the night

upturned faces


while we

who see the immutable sky beyond

hear the silence that meets the shouted questions

search among the knotted roots

for something we never knew we had

End frame

I wrote a poem earlier today about the view from my window, which you can read here, but the scene has changed; it’s almost dark now, so here’s the new view. For dverse.

wild sunset

The frame is the same,

each moment captured, different;

wild colour, this, after windy day.


Each moment trembles

on the brink of the past,

clouds drift, changing shape,


sun sinks, night rises,

and when the dark hand

quenches the light, the day will be done,


the cow gone back to the barn,

and the hedges will rustle

with all the things we will never see.

Haibun for the idea of a birthday

For the dverse prompt.

june sunset5

Perhaps it was a special day once, I forget, and for as long as I can remember, it has not had much significance. A smile, a gift and a cake. What more was there? Special celebrations with guests and noise have always been collective not individual, whatever that says about me and how I was brought up. I prefer it that way.

chicks hatch fly

the sky as bright for all

as wide the ocean

Haiku sequence: Birds in a hot sky

A haiku (hopefully) sequence for the dverse prompt



bold as brass echoes

with summer


swallows at sunset

flicker in elegant flight

winged evening dress


heat throbs

woodpecker-laughs while we bake

with tree envy


still hushed air

grasped in an iron fist

hot as a cat’s breath


too hot to sing

sparrowhawk ever ready

to pick a fight

Sevenling: Summer fruit

A second quadrille/sevenling for dverse because blackberrying is so full of images.


Deep purple blackberries

midnight blue sloes

bramble among bright green figs syrup-heavy by the lane.


Sun bakes

stifling the thrush’s song, the orioles fluting questions

but the fruit swells and oozes with sweetness.


Windfalls gathered by fox and marten spread their sticky evidence—wasp-feast




For the dverse prompt. The first blackberries are ripe but it’s too hot to pick them yet.


Amid the tangled,

sharp-spined jungle

of winding, whip-snaked brambles,


razor wire

and the bright red welts of torn flesh

are the berries,

sloe-black and gleaming,

biggest, blackest

always out of reach,

where spiked tendrils arc—

hark, juice drips,

sweet as the warbler’s song.



When the bough breaks

For the dverse prompt. Not really on form today so I may try again tomorrow. The swallows are real though.



cycles and circles

feast and famine

risings of moon, sun and anger


tides ebbing flowing

around and around

the encircling ocean


cradling winds the bowing of trees

hands raised to implore

to hold a dead infant up to the sky


we creep run stumble to the tipping point

when there is nothing left to lose

the future bleaker than the past


and like the circling of swallows

over the golden meadow

at the going down of the sun


we rise and fly

with nothing but the orbit of light

in our wings.


For the dverse prompt


Untangle the threads perhaps

to find

chi son? Sono un poeta

I am have

something unique

but who knows what?

Who knows what lies beneath the words?


Je pense, donc je suis


this knot of thought into existence

tangled and bramble-knotted

ergo sum.


Je suis



as a cloud is

a bird a song

but the colours woven into the mix

are mine

mé féin


I alone see this sunset

from this angle

the last light among these trees

and the deer ambling along the hedge


but is

as I am.

A change of perspective

For the dverse prompt, a whole photo album.


Who, what am I?

A wraith walking the past and future.

Then, in those moments I was proud;


then I was proudest of each baby,

blizzard-born, Aliénor d’Aquitaine,

le petit cabri, le bébé cadum,

dragged unwilling, forcepted

cesareaned, popped like a cork

or the long slow push,


at Easter, on bank holidays,

La Garde Républicaine trooping past just for you,

midnight and bright day,

fog at the year’s end and rain,

spring, high summer,

all those times I was




euphoric, cloud-floating,

padding hospital wards

night-dressed and weary;

the smell of ether, babies crying.


I was proud of you all.


Now, perhaps,

looking back among wraiths and snapshots,

baby clothes, cribs, beds, a million toys

laughter and squabbles,

I can finally be proud

of me.


A second quadrille for the dverse prompt. Blue is a pretty enormous subject!


Pale as winter mornings

ice beneath a clear sky

plumbago blooms

a newborn’s romper


intense as gentian flowers

flags waving on the fourteenth of July


deep as Mediterranean waters


and indigo dark as the still tropical night

just after sunset

and your goodbye—blue