Broken Circle

 

There's a stone or two missing

in the standing circle

Shattered by sky-bolts

that turned a stag's head.

 

On its side was one laying

till they again popped it upright

a timeworn chiseling

was found to be there.

 

The ancient runic meaning

was debated by experts

till a small man with glasses

from the museum declared.

 

'It reads,' “If this is the sum total

of mankind's grand future...

Please lay me back down

on my side once again “.

Cycling Past Italian Sunset

(Sold)

 

When I grow up my love and I

will cycle past Italian

sky past lavender fields and olive groves

we'll have a picnic with crusty loaves

 

with flavoured water and salami too

beneath a tree, take in the view.

Hold each other by the hand

at sunset in our far off land.

 

There will be no war or sickness too

no fear of what the world might do.

We'll sit and drink from a dark blue cup

my love and I when I grow up.

The Eel Catcher

 

Swiftly smearing ourselves on yellow daffs

down dark ravines

spattering star-glow hit and miss

moist green almost bright as day

speckling our path,

close to where the eel catcher

walks moonlit laden home.

 

And up again, twittering skylarks

we must have seemed

bursting through the black.

Rembrandt's colours we surely were

but didn't know the impact of our

sweetly routined days.

 

Time came to the window

but didn't wait... and left

and yet we filled those hollow days

with mirth to make a bishop smile.

No time we had for those without

the yellow blush upon their cheek.

 

For we loved the world

as was intended

and time could only stand and smile

while we filled the innocent sky

with our boisterous presence.

Fly Away Home

18" x 24"

acrylic / canvas

 

Home is where I turn my weary head

when work is done

to rooms where I'm important

where people wrap their arms around

and call me loved.

 

Home is where I once was small

and left my fears outside

where bones and mind grew safely

where rain wet clothes were stripped

and eyes were closed in bathtubs.

 

It's where before I breathed this air

I must have been,

at least in someone's perfect dream

before substantial in this world

belonging in another.

 

And after I have left this place

and the ones who make me rooted here

and made it so familiar

and let me fit into

their all embracing dance

I shall fly away

. . . home.

Gathering Ghost Flowers

 

There's a place in the woods

which no one knows

where she comes from each day,

and in the basket on her back

hours of hand picked ghost flowers.

 

Spectral white they shine

this rank and useless flora

fair as her face,

this rare flower

useless as her beautiful head.

 

Each one she'd lay out by the wall

till they would dry and twist and blacken

hoping for the one

the story tells

would keep its shape, its colour.

 

Might keep its wondrous form

the minstrel sang

the petals never shrinking

its boggy stench instead

the breath of honeysuckle.

 

The one the old hag said

to place beneath his pillow

stab it with your childish hope

encircle with your feeble dreams

and walk the moon till morning...

 

So I stumble in the city's din

dreams wrapped around a senseless head

peer through doors

left partly closed

to catch a glimpse of morning.

 

But it's hard to squeeze the narrow gap

with this basket of ghost flowers

on my back

and so hard to watch each lonely flower

twisting black in the morning sun.

'Fool's Paradise' (series)

 

Harbour Morning

The Quest

 

Polished smooth by rough hands

is it now darkly waiting

below a foreign chapel

guarded by ignorance

and a large deathless beast ?

 

Fashioned by the Eastern man

is the quest still worth the risks ?

If the answer lies within us

is the journey just the song

to the tune that's always been there

...and yet we must go on.

Hill Folk (The Bike)

 

Up here where the copper eagle

softly whistles.

Where the sky can lightly

brush my shoulders

and the dalesmen

are all left below

I find the place to sigh.

 

My life's days

I fasten to this spot

where the river starts

and falls,

remembering always

its true home

and dreams also soar

unwilling to forget.

 

With my neighbours the clouds

who yield to these whims

I am oddly apart

and yet part of...

In this home of gods

I find the place to sigh.

James Bay Revisited

 

No Poem

Off Season

 

We love off seasons

we melancholics.

Our conference at this

sea side town,

when all the fun has passed

is sweet pain to our loneliness.

 

Stale murmurings of a crowd

just gone

is a balm upon our ears ,

forgotten birthdays,

rejected love

is all we ask of life.

'Fool's Paradise' (series)

 

Crossing the Burn

The Quest

 

Polished smooth by rough hands

is it now darkly waiting

below a foreign chapel

guarded by ignorance

and a large deathless beast ?

 

Fashioned by the Eastern man

is the quest still worth the risks ?

If the answer lies within us

is the journey just the song

to the tune that's always been there

...and yet we must go on.

The Refugee's Dance

 

We played on a green

not yet discovered . . .

a friend

whom I would sometimes love

beside the tall sea and marble fountain

and the even taller sky.

 

Spinning on shining grass we stole,

unlike our other crimes

all the time it had to offer

No stolen gooseberry on our breath

It's stain was all upon us .

 

Broken cranes in moody shipyards

their arms held out but mothers gone

could not survey this piece of Eden

sweet blessed with fruit

and serpent gone.

 

Each gulp of air was owing to us

and flowers they could not outshine

for we blazed our dance

in dappled sunshine

with souls that once two angels owned.

Sisters on the Hill

 

The click clack of ill fitting shoes

past my door

as they leave the general store

with foreign provisions

towards their high above

the rest of the world home,

where none returns from,

they say . . .

the sisters with their

beautiful deserted bodies.

 

Home spun hats lost in time

around remarkable pale faces.

Eyes that might gaze

through a chink in heaven's curtain,

or hell they say,

as they face the ascent

with indifferent humour.

Yet with them they take

to their lair in the clouds . . .

every good dream I have.

The Golden Ball

 

No Poem