In the dusk of the year


In the dusk of the year

we stand wreathed in flying leaves

and restless skies watching

the dark half of the year turn closer

remembering the cold that bites

beneath snow-filled cloud

and our dreams full of fire.


In the twilight of all things that matter

we lie down on scorched grass

and watch the storm clouds gather.

No rainbows will follow this deluge

no ark no saving graces.

No dawn will follow this night

of no moon and no stars.


Night falls

and falls












Moons, time and tides

For the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt. The words:



I mark the page and close the book,

No time to finish what I start,

This trial is running to its end,

I smell rot in the rose’s heart.

Time was when sun would fill with gold

The open page, the lawn of green,

But now the moon draws tide and time,

Leaves me left with what might have been.

Bird, find your nest in hedges deep,

Far from marauding feline claws,

Raise your brood and sing your songs,

The one truth in this world of flaws.

In the wind


In the wind, dead leaves are flying,

Drifting gold on silver water,

The river running to the sea.


Blackbirds chase among the branches,

The fruit that shrivels on the vine,

In the wind, dead leaves are flying.


Autumn sun sinks, pale and failing,

Like dreams that gleam just out of reach,

Drifting gold on silver water.


Though last beams end their flight in shadow,

Hand in hand, we watch till night falls,

The river running to the sea.

Where were you?


Where were you when the night caught fire,

and the stars shredded silver filings on the blazing wind?

Why did my hand catch at empty air

and loose feathers, museum-dull,

instead of the comet’s tail?

I think I saw you sauntering by the river,

whistling low a tune we used to share,

your hands full of moonbeams

to offer to someone else.

Where did it go, the cool, green love,

Slip-sliding through sun-slanting beams of summer?

Did it follow the last of the geese fleeing the ice floes

Or sink, a trunk of treasure trove, beneath cold waves?

Beyond the lament, the final hissing sparks,

of falling fireworks,

I thought I heard a blackbird sing,

Or perhaps it was the fading strings

of a romantic film,

the flickering screen I cannot see

through this veil of tears.

Where the swan lies down

I knew I’d use this painting by Andrew Stevovich again.


Where the swan lies down to die,

Where the rowan berries lie,

Beneath the wild and lonely sky,


Where the roots delve dark and deep,

Beneath the poplars’ restless sleep,

There abandoned lovers weep.


The geese have flown, the daylight’s fled,

Scattered the sweet words you said,

Like autumn leaves, my dreams are dead.


Take the warp and take the weft,

Take my heart, leave me bereft,

Weave a story with what’s left.

#writephoto: No beacon

The piece of short fiction I was writing Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt is a sequel to the story I wrote for my own microfiction challenge (yes, I do them too), so it doesn’t stand alone. This is a poem I wrote yesterday though, that might fit the bill instead.


The air is black between us,

though honeysuckle hangs unseen,

and all the birds, down-soft, song-sweet,

are fluttering with the pinking clouds.

Mist hangs like shrouds, or is it sails?

of that ship we were meant to take

across a corrugated tarmac sea,

nailed down and charted every inch,

to that ‘place for us’ we’ll never see.

I could smell its fullness, rich and sharp,

Of sun-bathed earth as green as life

and apples, running silver rivers-laced,

but you never said, I never knew

what engines, whirring cogs and gears

criss-crossed that paradise of yours.

The air is black, not dusky grey,

where prowling cats shine beacon eyes,

the air is black as pitch and darkest sin,

and echoes empty as deepest space,

the void where old love goes to die.


We are going into the night


We are going into the night,

Leaving the sun and the dawning,

We are leaving the land of the light,

Where blackbird is king of the morning.


Down the river that runs forever,

We are going into the night,

In a boat that will bring us back never,

Gull-winged and shrouded in white.


The clouds of our sunset ignite,

In a farewell of fiery hues,

We are going into the night,

Where fire and water fuse.


Gull and swan beat the night air,

Leading the boat from the light,

Leaving pain and fear in the sun’s glare

We are going into the night.