We are going from here into the mists of the future, and the present is already slippery as a pond full of frogs. Past is past and swallowed by great dark fish with no hope of redemption. River runs, ever and always, and we will follow its sinuous thread back along the valley, away from the ocean, into green hills. Waves roll up the strand and leave piles of kelp for idle fortune tellers to speculate on what might have been. For we will be long gone, dust on the road, and a fading puzzlement in a big dog’s fuzzy brain that his friend doesn’t comes to play any more.

Seabird folds white wings,

wave path undulates, glass green—

he waits for the wind.

The more our road meanders,

the longer the journey seems.



Sod the packing. A poem for the dverse prompt about metaphor. I have a feeling I always do this, so I’m maybe missing the point. Here it is anyway.


And could I make this more than it is,

the vibrant light of morning,

rising to where the clouds cluster in gaudy flocks,

and the falling evening ocean,

bathing grass in pink and gold,

flecked with roistering homing birds?

Nothing I can say or do will change the quality of light,

the sky, a basking sea lit by coral stars its deep dark bed,

the trees that wave wild unkempt hair in the wind,

and in the dappling shadows,

the rust red, white scut flash of hart and hare.

You will always be the anchor in this wild sea,

the mirror, delicate as the clean washed strand,

and make me more than I could ever be alone.

Triste, ce temps

A morning of enforced idleness. Too many people coming round to fill boxes. The usual Indian summer that starts at the beginning of September and lasts well into October just hasn’t materialised. Rain, rain, rain is all we get.

This rather miserable poem is for the Secret Keeper’s prompt. Written in French with English adaptation.



Triste, ce temps, ce ciel de traîne d’un gris profond,

Soumis les arbres embracés par ce vent du nord,

Qui se tortillent en murmurant des mots de plainte.

Je laisse mes doigts effleurent la peau si lisse de soie liquide,

De mon lac perdu parmi les bâtiments indifférents,

Et le vent emporte ces larmes, ces rêves mal dessinés,

Dans un ciel de traîne, pleurer sur le dos solide de l’océan.


Sad, this changing sky of cloudy grey,

The trees that bend beneath the north wind’s grasp,

And murmur, as they bow, words of complaint.

My fingers trace the skin of liquid silk,

Of my lake lost among uncaring crowds,

Snatched by the wind, tears and unformed dreams

Fall from a changing sky onto the sea’s broad back.

Sky and horses

We’re getting there. Another poem then a couple more boxes before bed. This one is for the dverse prompt, rain and its homonyms. And upbeat. Don’t ask me what it’s about—it’s upbeat, that’s all. If I had time, I’d find a blue horse painting to go with it.


It’s raining stars—

though we see only steel-grey water—

and the great sky horses plough their heavy wings

through torrents of molten fire,

and shake their manes at the dog star.

No bridle, no reins to guide and arrest,

no saddle and spurs to tame the beast,

the wild hunt with no hunters,

the race with no winner, no prize.

They hear only the clash of clouds,

dance among piercing spears of lightning

and the rain,


laughing, horse-splashing rivers,

that the last roses catch and dangle,


in the morning sun.