On the winter pool of the world


Cold is in the colour of the fog

that swallows stars and frozen grass.

Stark is the skeleton of the year

skin like blackened parchment, peeling

from tree trunk and bough.

Silence is in the air

where bird chatter should vibrate,

the seed gatherers and insect hunters, flocking,

starved with cold, no bright fluttering to waste.

Damp is in the grey cloud

that hangs where blue should glow

and sun and moon send light dancing

on the winter pool of the world.


When will it break,

the grip, tight as steel bands girt about?


When the sun will crack the ice

on dark puddles black as death,

and breathe life into silver fish,

the still stars, reflecting.

Phantom fog



We start the day in fog that clings so wet

And coats the trees in grey of mud made air.

Not bitter cold this solstice time and yet,

We start the day in fog that clings so wet.

With thoughts of sunlight and regret,

That winter gnaws the bones and strips them bare,

We start the day—this fog that clings so wet

Coats phantom trees in grey of mud made air.



Beneath autumn trees

so bright with orange light

crackling over lush golden grass

we are rocked in gentle pastels

colours of childhood songs

and remembered places.


Fog grows

from the night ground

the hush of withheld breath

and covers the house

like a gloved hand

pressed over

a screaming mouth.




Along the misty river

It’s open night at the dVerse pub, so anything goes. The photo is one I took this morning. The poem, a triolet is inspired by it.


Along the misty river fly

The ghosts of gulls with strident calls,

And I can barely see the sky.

Along the misty river fly

Shades of the lost, I hear them cry.

They search the banks as twilight falls

Along the misty river. Fly,

The ghosts of gulls with strident calls.

Walking through the drizzle


Walking through the drizzle

When cloud presses down

Tangling water and air,

When there’s

No earth to tread upon

Just scraps of mist

That trip and entwine,

Snake sinuous,

Slippery carcasses strewn on the quay,

I stumble, my head full of

Cold, dead fish

And the ghosts of gulls

That flit through the fog,

Silent as the river, sliding

Like cooling lead

To the unseen sea.

Winter gulls: Haiku sequence

The painting doesn’t really fit, but I like it anyway. You have to imagine the fog.


Gulls on white wings

wheel over the misty river

fishing for lost dreams.


Fog falls thick hiding

water and sky—only gulls

glide nonchalantly.


River mist rises

white grey pearls gulls string their wings

feathered river gems


Cloud winter-swollen

white-flecked with gulls snow drifting

still the robin sings.


Rain whips cold—gulls cry

grey cloud buffets swirling flocks

gale tests feathred strength.


Fallen branches strewn

raft islands on the river

gulls sail to the sea.