The empty stems of the fennel

Under umbrella heads of raindrops

Are perches for the waiting birds

The grey green sage leaves

Glow crystal white in the frost

Moss grows where the branch

Leaves the trunk of the bonsai

Its ruddy leaves falling

Amongst the yellowing leaves

A single crimson rose bud perishes

Yellow leaves have fallen from the dogwood

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And then, suddenly, it was calm - the morning wind which threw

rain hard against the window panes and sent beech leaves rushing

across the grass to pile gold-brown against all that the borders grew,

all slowly dulling their greens to wet, muted browns, brushing

the soil as their leaves curl and droop - vibrant Spring-strength gone,

fading sadly.

                         The wind ...

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Back in 1995 I seem to have been a whole lot angrier than I am today! And more lost. But there's certainly some energy here.

Lost

Lost when your eyes are too wide,

lost when the sky

shouts high notes

when it should be whispering;

lost when the fires die.

Lost when complete strangers

give you the finger and grin,

or when the beer and the noise stop

and y...

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white, ashen, charcoal berms

to the left

to the right

everywhere in sight.

little tail-wagger

pulling at it's lead

owner nervous indeed.

hot steamy mustard stains

pains to walk around.

disregarded rides peaking out,

entries frozen shut.

mukluk, brogan, boot impressions

paint the path.

naked saplings fractured,

boskage leaning on each other

like bashed r...

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Snowy night in
The early spring—
Winter heavy upon
My memories—
I see your figure
Approaching in the dark,
A silhouette in the snow
Against the lantern lights.
Inside, the house is warm,
Though I stand below the lintel
Watching your approach and
Feeling the chilly breeze.
The sight of you
After the long season
Of longing separation
Brings a smile to my heart.

You hesitate in the ...

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The sharp-toothed skirmisher of January past

passes its knives by her cheeks;

the hillside heralds its shredded brown visage,

winter’s wolf howls the bitter conquest of the moors.

The season of concealing crowns and faces,

of cautious feet across the maze of wilted souls

to reach the lone tree, grey lightning petrified in time.

Frozen into the bark are age and time.

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