Tomorrow is there,

lurking in the darkest hours of today,

waiting with its claws and its thorns that tear the flesh

and etch fatigue into every joint.

The bright dreams of once

hang like framed pictures high on a bleak wall,

not quite out of the reach of vandals.

Spray-painted worries splatter the colours with black,

and attercops spin their sticky webs

that catch not flies but silver fishes,

flick-flitting through the calm waters of what might have been.

Might yet be, who knows?

Who can see through the murky veil?

Between then and now there is no more night,

no gentle buffer zone,

just a choppy sea full of whirlpools,

the harsh cry of gulls,

and the same words, chitter-chattering round and round.

Peace and silence sail beyond the reach of mortal hand

and the sails are black.

Somewhere, far away, a sparrow chirrups.

I toss a handful of crumbs to clear the rags from the air

that fills with soft feathers and beating hearts,

and I remember the golden cube of stone,

old and sturdy, set in clay and lush meadow,

the well of quiet, that waits at the end of the night.



River and the tide


River runs its ceaseless course
From yesterday until the end of days.
We stand on the brink above the tossing waves
And watch the way the dappled sunlight plays.
Waiting for the call that never comes
The beckoning to leap into the dance
We hover undecided while the tide rolls back
With the little silver skiff of life’s best chance.
River runs regardless of our états d’âme
It has no arms to open and embrace
No honeyed voice to persuade of this or that
No soft expression on its changing face.
River runs into the unknown realms
Of perhaps and may be in the misty light
The place beyond the bend we cannot see
The dreams that lie beyond our feeble sight.
We plunge and follow as best we can
Bound in ropes of water current fast and strong.
We leap and catch the parting tide
Or linger with regrets our whole life long.

If wishes were horses

If wishes were horses, would I have a whole herd galloping across a wide green plain? Or would I have one single magnificent animal, the distillation of all that is wild and spontaneous, perfect down to its tiniest imperfections?

Wishes and dreams are what keep us looking forward to tomorrow, help us shrug off the daily greyness of jobs that must be done. Beyond is the green plain of running horses, sometimes shrouded in mist, or seen through veils of rain, but always there in its intangible beauty.

I have my glorious dreams, sometimes a riot of them, sometimes a single brilliant star of a dream. And even if they are like bright water slipping between my fingers, I still follow where they run.

Pity is what I feel, but can never voice, for the friend who keeps a spotless house for husband and children, and follows where her husband’s personal star leads. She is happy, she says, to move and see new places, to keep a spotless home in exotic towns in faraway countries. But I can only imagine the blankness in her heart behind the smile of satisfaction. Time stands still for no one, and soon the dreams, if they come at all, will come too late.

One day, I will catch up with my dreams, running with a herd of wild horses across a green plain.