Thursday, June 25, 2015


A corridor of whispering grass smooths to a halt.
A gibbous moon looms, spreading cosmic Philadelphia on mud toast,
an estuary deprived of tide until the next hour comes.
You sit in your crude creek shack and wait.
The creek is all tall sides and quiet,
like a school hall at night. Make what you will
of these shadows, these shadows that
make reeds or boat masts into Robert Mitchums, stalking us
for rag-doll loot.
Night-clouds roll in, and ruffle feathers of sleeping birds.
Count the seconds between grumbles of distant thunder
and pins of flash across the bay to see how close it is to you,
this storm, this storm that
cools the mud and dampens the paper of a late-night cigarette.
The rain sleeks shine upon the seabed,
readying it for the burble of tide, while
the moon now cloaked in storm resides, under a blanket
of thunder and gloam. 

Thursday, June 4, 2015


Peeks of sun tease through the bedroom curtain,
whispering leaf shadows on the wall.
The first day it feels like hope, where
light and warmth remind me of
summer mornings before primary school.
No more morning darkness, or
stumbling like foals into the gloom,
but a stretch in bed with
shards of sun on straying limbs,
warmth beginning to bloom.
The coo of pigeons sing to me on the windowsill.
Come to me, day, I am ready for you:
come June, June, June.