Three poems

Three ways to say the same poem. Or is there just one way, and the others are facets, shadows that it casts?


The world has shifted, all the summer gone;
The swallows that turned sky to ocean flown,
Turned wind to waves the length of summer days,
And with the turning wind, like dry leaves blown.
Beneath this sky of knotted winds and drifts
Of cloud, we stand our faces to the west,
To bathe in sunset’s fire, as summer fades,
And put the light half of the year to rest.


gone, swallows flown
that turned the wind to waves,
and with the turning wind, like dry
leaves blown.
Beneath this sky of knotted winds
and drifts of cloud, we stand
as summer fades
to rest.


Gone summer,
swallows and their wind-waves
blown leaves in the knotted sky.

We raise sun-fired faces
to the coming dark.

Sea, turquoise and fuchsia




rolls on drunken waves

from sky to sky

and calls down boiling storm clouds

to drown my tears

in rivers of rain.


Voices in the fog,

ghosts of you and me.

I can almost remember

what we used to say,

but not how it felt.


It was the last time that we spoke,

and the words bounced back and forth

never taking hold.

I wish I could take those words

and twist them into the shape

of a bird or a rose

and give them to you again.


Take a song and sing it soft

to calm a stormy sea,

spread your crow black wings and let

the wind blow you safe back to me.


Beyond the humdrum

and the dismal damp

of November light,

sinking into obscurity,

the turquoise and fuchsia

and the flame red

of summer evenings

still sing to conjure up the moon,

and we will walk there

hand in hand beneath the stars.

All good things

One after the other, twitter prompted a string of bright poems today.


If you watch the swallows’ dance,

and look with unclouded eyes

into the morning sky, the rose’s heart,

If you can see the miracle of life

In a drop of dew balanced on a petal’s lip

perhaps you will see me.


My breath withheld,

a leaf dancing between fire and water,

I wait to catch your eye,

your hand,

a silver thread,

hanging from a star.


All good things

smell of the sea

or stars

or sailboats

or taste of pines

or red

or morning sun

or lie curled and sleeping

within the reach of my hand.


Bathed in silver light

the world is soft,

full of dancing shadows

and the excited cry of the fox,

blossoming like the pale stars of windflowers

when the sun’s voice is silenced.

Evening stars and falling petals

Twitter poems from a fruitful series of prompts.


It is lonely in the depths,

the murk that swirls too thick

to see the many others there,

and the glimmer at the surface,



Is there really light

at the end of this dark road,

or is it wishful thinking—

like seeing eagles

where there are only crows?


Evening folds its wings

with the hushed tones of falling roses.

We sink into night

beneath the silent glitter of the stars.


Is it fate,

whispered in the breeze,

that brings me here,

to hold out my hands

and catch the petals as they fall?


Caught in the perfume

of desire’s dark wings,

pulled by the tide into unsounded depths

I reach out my hand to you.


Hand in the water

catch the ripples

paint my hair with seafoam.

Sing the songs of merfolk

before the morning comes.

Black pearls and moonlight

Twitter poems from yesterday’s prompts.


All tears are black

for sorrow is dark

and wells from the places

where no light falls.


Black pearls

are as rare as moonstones

and sundew

and starfish

that light the deeps of the ocean

with drops of pearl moonlight.


Gulls soar to the moon and back,

dusted with silver

and the grey of dead stars.

Their eyes full of worlds

we will never know,

their call, the voices of the dead.


Sun breaks on gleaming waters,



a hoard of light.

If my hands could hold it,

I would give it all to you.


At the epicentre of all worlds

is a heart that beats and throbs

in time to the wings of love,

the song of the turtle dove.