April 2019

in the fall from grace
terminal velocity
out of a leaf's reach

past her prime
she puts her golden heart
out to pasture

the stillness . . .
when words for devastation
come to their end


Weird Laburnum

autumn flies—
a wringing of hands
as death nears

air moves in
to fill the unsaid
within the words


Weird Laburnum

dawn    —   distinct
instinct —   indistinct
dusk    —   extinct

linen shroud . . .
snowed under with ranks
of body bags

"Tom's a-cold"—
ashen snowflakes melt
on each tongue

the winter tree—
a veteran climbs down
to see no more

cold hard facts
yesterday's atrocities
today's warmth

in hushed tones
a promise of colour
quickens the sky

winter thaw . . .
gutters brim over
with gaiety

not yet spring
yet see how its absence

harvest moon
a pumpkin vine retraces
its origins

as if silence
could ever be enough
all night vigil

crest-fallen sky
a finger-scrawl of clouds . . .
autumn ends

summer burns out
having found no fulfilment
in such warmth

nagging thirst
as if a cool spring
would burst forth


a crow rants
from the dead centre
of a deluge

a sapling
rooted in nothing
but absence

spring thaw
what was lost here
in silence

six minutes . . .
the very stones
cry "no more"

Paschal Moon—
wherein lies your sting?

a new dawn
the moon sinks prostrate
before it

Easter dawn
silence is pregnant
no more

hushed at dawn
a baptismal fire

dawn vigil
all the unknowns
melt away