Another cold morning


Dim light


grey as dusk swims

a cold ocean

over frosted grass.

Lemon yellow sun hides

among the groves of the south

where butter wouldn’t melt

and the geese sing loud.

Hard earth yields little

but hoofed away the fallen leaves

acorns sit fat as pigs.

Squabbling over scraps

songbirds flit

bright shards

of the broken jar that was summer,

the mirror of spring.


The silk trees dream of home


Night lingers beneath the silk trees’ curving boughs,
Velvet soft their star-spangled canopy,
Bejewelled as a sultry bridal gown,
And cool as the fountains of Samarkand.
When the golden sun lights up the eastern sky,
Dewdrops hanging from rose-silky petal spikes
Reflect the hues of hanging garden blooms
And glitter with the songbirds’ liquid notes
That pour in sorrow from a thousand captive throats,
Filled with all the grief of broken wings.
Growing far from home with roots in distant lands,
The silk trees’ feather leaf fans fed by foreign streams,
Across the years and burning desert sands,
The breeze sighs with their languid cloistered dreams.

Last day of summer

Last day of summer

I walk


to the quiet wild places

where even the fly tippers don’t go

to breathe in the last of the summer air

to watch the crimson vines climbing through the tired green

and clouds ripple in white shoals

across the vast ocean of the sky.

To listen to the songbirds sing one last song

before they gather up the glowing embers of summer fire

to warm them on their journey south

through the cold high air.

West wind gusts warm through turning leaves

that tremble and cling unaware their day is done

and whispers in autumn’s hesitant voice

a warning from the icefields of the north

“Après moi, le déluge.”