Change coming perhaps

December dawn 6

beneath these trees I sit
waiting for the storm
listening to its dark beat
carried on the wind
echoes of heaving waves

dull grass
deep as repressed desire
rolling grey as winter oceans
and the ghosts of lost sailors

I listen for the night leaving
in the blustery sky
where ice melts slow as fading stars
and feel the earth wake


Goodnight moon

at the end of the day

we can only say the day is ended

the sun has set

and in the whispering of the leaves

is the promise of tomorrow


tomorrow begins with the dark

and the moon’s course across the sky

the patterings and scufflings among the grasses

the hunting owls

and the dropping dew


dew prefigures frost

the silver veiling of the earth

paling of the green

and trembling tree shadows

to the colour of moonlight


moonlight bathes

the meadow is awash

and the day has ended in the night ocean

I sail sunwards

clutching my promise of tomorrow

Not fall



There is a net of outstretched arms

a mesh of those who care

holding up the sky

holding back the dark ocean

spanning the abyss


and I cling amid the stars

to the rigging

swaying in night breezes

the last waves of sunset

over forgotten passages of time


to the structure

strong as spiderweb

spun for me

that glitters in sun and rain

and I know it will not let me fall

gogyohka for a stormy evening

this darkness full of rain

that clatters in the chimney

and washes over roof tiles

seeping through cracks and pooling on the floor

is the summer’s end


the end of dusty death of grass

and the bees wandering hungry

migrations started

the sky emptying of feathers

filling with cloud


clouded sky water memories

and the longing for what has gone

fingers that claw like garden rakes over dry stalks

but nothing can breathe life

back into summer’s husk.

gogyohka for stormy dark

For Frank Tassone’s haikai challenge. a stormy sequence.


half the day is dark

for some the half-light too

when things are unclear

and mysteries slip

between light and shadow



the reverse of light swells

when birds settle with folded wings

and prowls the rustling grasses

on determined feet


feet pad silently

except for crackling of leaves in August drought

amid the gentle sighing of boughs

in the cooling air

cradling pigeons


pigeons fall silent

when dusk fades

from dying gold to feather-grey

hush among the leaves

still heavy with heat


heat rises

swells in waves of cloud

crackling with lightning

sparks of faulty connections

illuminating the underbelly of the storm




this path is straight

has no turnings

it leads to the mountain of words

and unopened books

and it has no end


the hedges are dark

at either hand

though white cups of roses

float here are there

and birds flutter


the path is a stream

between stony banks

its course relentless

carrying its debris of fellow travellers

to the sea


where drowning in disappointment

awaits those with empty hands

and the worries

that ran alongside

like tireless hounds


swim now with jaunty fins

still here

they roll their silver-glitter eyes

reminding us of wild roses

in a forgotten hedgerow

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

gogyohka for summer pause

bright chicory and cats ears

such a feeling of completion

when the meadow returns

in a froth of white lace

above yellows and purple pinks

blues and tender greens


scars of haymaking washed away

in the flowing tide of vegetation

hay bales slump

rooted by climbing tendrils

of more growth


spring is not yet done

with the furious pumping of the life force

slower but still potent

the meadow rises

to meet the sunfall


heat pulses and bakes

dries the coaxed grasses

kindles fireflowers

an oriole refuses to sing

but squawks in complaint


and summer twilight fading

the imperceptible transformation

of the distant whooping of children

to the fluttering hooting

of the first owls

Gogyohka for heat and birdsong

For Frank Tassone’s haikai challenge.


sun melts and drips

yellow as an oriole’s feathers

into the hush

with the sweet golden fluting

of his song


among the leaves

limp with sun

where wood pigeons croon lullabies

shade dapples flash with spread wings

and the heat sings


molten beams spread


a rising tide

until the evening is awash

with liquid sun


and still the singing

no audience

no applause

only the heckling of woodpeckers

shadows lengthening


and perhaps at the end

before the night

when sleep calls

the satisfaction

of a job well done