This is a small collection of poems written over the last few weeks. Mostly they were written at about midnight from my room upstairs, facing East and listening to the sounds outside. The mood is an odd mixture of optimism, doubt and acceptance peculiar to that stage in my day, and this stage of my life.

There may be a connection to the arrival and departure of the equinox and to Samhain. Equal levels of lightness and darkness and a descent into winter.

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Ginger Tom

Met a dead cat sleepingin my dreams yeowledthrough grizzled mouthshouted a warning insilence broken bythe clamour of memoryringing out the changesmeasured today bytomorrow’s standardscalled out the pastto stand trial foundit guilty as chargedhung it by its historiesand left it swingingstark reminderof naked truths turnedover and sankinto pillows soft, sleptlike the dead, awoke withclaw marks on my chest.

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Voiced

Heard some words, a tune,caught the driftgot a sensesniffed the airread the ashes scatteredhair unwashed and mattedmumbling, singing somethingpasses through the unlit archessticky palmed and cold onthe last legs of love,unshaven shufflingdrink this in remembrance ofwe, who were a wholelot more to be said butthe vocal chord is cut,the birth of sense stilled.Sparrows gossip in the ivy,shadows long out anddeepen, the song fades.

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Singing Bird

A song thrush speckled breastand sharp brown legs lyingtarmacadam dead beneaththe cooperative shop windowkilled by reflectivefacets and vigorous flight.Did I believe my eyes ordeceive them withprecognition?In the moment of impact,flying intoyour arms my vision shattered,breaking the neck ofspeeding cupid, your frozenstare glazed like the picture of a sticky bunglued to the glass,bleached, yellowedand breathless.

Sag

Skin the biggest organ aleather sac that holdstightly to the formaletiquette of muscularityis the first to slip atsight of the door posts,needing propped andstrapped and padded througheach day in an apoplexyof wrinkled disdaingood god put it away orat the very least rubsomething on it to fillthe cracks someone shouldreally re-inflate your balloonstretch your drum-skintighten your tarpaulin darling.

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Concussion

And then a knife passesthrough life, or a flame acrossthe fingers boils the blood ofcomprehension, a blow frombehind, unseen nor heard uponyour nape at skull’s base breaksconcentration wraps smartlyupon the door, suchthat all breaks, all will crumble,reason to gibber slidesinside the cateracted mudslide of certainties slipped,snapped the ligament thatbinds bone to b******t,sits you down suddenly, leansagainst the wall, breathes out,arms limp, eyes wide, allcreation before you in a paradeof colours and forms most wondrous.

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Loss

In your hand the secateurspoised to pruneselect a limblocate the budassume the angledescend the jawsmeet cambial resistancesqueezesnipclear blood flowsmomentarily, tearsof severancepaid in homageto extremitiesfive years that oneleaf flowers and fruitI will miss youand from this cutdiverge upon another path.

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Parched

Rain in the dark fallingunseen but heard, itsdescent illustrated byimpact, splashing uponthe house and the reachof grasses and trees thatjoin here with eternityin green shade. Memoriesare playing between thedrops like moths tiltingand fluttering, pushedaside by displaced air aswater barges in to this moment,travelling down out of the sky,streaking earthward, calledhome by mother oceanlest the sea become too saltyand the rocks too dry.

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ar 2025

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