Though he has tasted fallen fruit and knows it’s sweet, Here lain, the blemishes are all that he can see.
The east wind, shrouded in a cloak of sighs, curls through the village alleys, along the harbourside . . .
On the West Coast, I hear, the forests glow.
I pause at the window to watch the rain falling loudly, alarmingly, as if a small monsoon had lost its way.
They are, I think, the last touches I shall know of an ocean that has drawn its tide away from me.
If only, she said, I had kissed him one second longer, or for one second less.
There’s more in sea than land, she says, and yet still more in clouded skies.
The only right response to the paradox of life . . .
I held my boat against the flow Because I thought I saw an ethereal place above the riverbank
Siren of the internet, she stretches on a WordPress rock .
In the shops and public spaces the people all walk with your sign on their faces . . .
I’ve squeezed the lemon – tart fruit that I inherited, And keynote of the life that I have led.
A position statement
A reflection on old age
Sex and words; and sexual words.
One day, when I am recently no more . . .
A message to a former lover.
Does it come in the still of a room in a home?
A lament for a neglected hill.