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A clear-cut stream frisks
Over moss-leathered granite –
Stones smooth from ancient moulding
Of a pattering current’s constant pressure,

And I dabble my gritted, bare feet,
Suddenly stark-chilled, as the hazy sun
Draws its corrugation of dust-curtains
Over the wave-cornfields, to turn and twist
Like assembled flocks of starlings’
Soaring arch in grey-black clouds.


I write absence on the page, (the pen is dry,
Sterile of ink), borrowing a strange
Song of despair from waterless clouds.

They feed me poisonous morsels
To kill with false satisfaction, breeding cancer
To the very core of my being.

I wish to understand the essence of music
That shapes language in black and white notes
As the background to a noble journey,

Where the Word is spoken and creates
With manifold splendour all that moves
In harmony and praise.

Yes, my desire is to be the scribe
Who tells the beautiful story,
After my eyes are opened to see
The world in faith and love.

Not of my own, but given once
I ask out of my need of Him,
The Author of my life.

First Love

He meets you at the mill-gate, thinking to
Pass by, but caught in your winsome trap,
Stops to gaze and fumble for silly words,
You smile in easy triumph at his loss,
Found in this strangely glad encounter,
And wait, perhaps remembering with
Irony the many others who bent to your will.
Now here this tongue-tied boy squirms
But does not want to go free. He listens
To the beat of a heart, edged with fervour.
He dare not move, for then he’ll reveal
The turmoil of uncontrollable passion
Which with violent twists tumbles
Its way through broken, bleeding flesh.


line-stacked cottage breathes
in rippled haze from its chimney gyrating
smoke skyward, and a
crisply laid meadow creaks and flakes,
warm from the dust-shafts of dawn,
as nature stretches dew-damp limbs
into a day-spring, freshly painted
with earthbound-rainbows, brimming
over with the densest clouds
of scattered bloom and petal,
for all is nurtured within the soil.


beyond my encircled routine, I watch
the hours tear off strips of unused time,

and the walls are blank, unwashed,
waiting for the big event, forced out
from my distrustful imagination’s
heightened awareness,

flowing as
molten lava from stress-fractures in
my swollen, runaway brain, and I
cannot see the end of it,

as the roped veins
twist and flex their unnatural muscle before
I’ve had a chance to catch my rasping breath.

beyond my swollen, runaway brain there is
no rhyme nor reason, but even less within,
so the barrier to my sense is crushed
beneath the scrambled feet of others’ lives,

caught between birth and death, the dual
certainties that prowl around my encircled
routine, sickly child

of unused time, subject
to my distrustful imagination, which soon
will vanish when faced with light
inaccessible and comfortingly relevant
beyond my encircled routine, and water –

the elixir of life abundant –
spills over to cleanse the desolate places
where I have dwelt too long in fear and sorrow,
caught between birth and death, those dual
certainties, and yet forgetting another sure
foundation –

the eternal flame, burning
chaff from my swollen, runaway brain and
wasteful heart – and wafting it to dust, now
sows love beneath the fertile soil.

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