Day 14. Camino

The search for my body

Can ritual give it shape
Once more. A walking.

Day 13. Camino

I am a poet pilgrim
In that I am sure.

If it does not require
Faith, I cannot see it.

Day 12. Camino

Wonder is timed
The rhythm is taught.

When snapped it dies.
Until the next time.

My steps are too slow,
Wind me up again.

Day 11. Camino

Already the time is dropping
Out of control.

I’ve forgotten the road
The arrows are not

Strong , let me see a shell
Today, just one.

Day 9. Camino

‘When you master something,
you have to run away and do
something else.’ Unknown

‘If an ideas new to you, then it’s
new. As artists we are creating our world,
our way.’ David Lynch

‘It’s an important experience to look back before moving on to something else’. Harry Nuriev.

Day 5. Camino

Little women in fleeces polishing things
And in a rush for Easter, the busiest day, the pressure to raise the right sum.

Tapped my card to the screen
By Saint Margaret’s shrine , ten pounds
Like a miracle from me to her.

Day 4. Camino

Larger, harder times, cathedrals,
Mall-like in their entirety, monopoly on
Human life and thought with death

Built in, to wall and floor and roof.
Little faces everywhere of animal and
Angel, daring us to sin.

Day 1. Camino

I started without rules
I stumbled into this day
I was all knitted to its
Sugars and salts.

Pilgrim was a hope word 
In the morning
Scrambled by night into
Lost hours, and I tasted it,
Almost dead.

The mouse

A little package of furry hunger

Scratching at the hidden

Corners of our lives, dashing

Between a fallen rice crispy 

Here, a popped pumpkin seed

There, a forgotten pod of arborio

Or basmati, no longer safe behind the stove.

The little patter of complacency,

A little token from the underworld,

The wide world outside, the

World of keen smells and  bendy

Eyes, scanning Nature for

Morsels of respite between the

Springs of my trap

Sorry little one, quick one

I am sorry and I hope 

You find another place

To call your own, you

Are not welcome here

Sink back into Nature’s

Raw Peace 

London’s bleeding, London’s bleeding, fetch the engines…

So many of us have

Noone but the people

We love. And everyone

Else, they, they are not

Loved. Loved ones are

Warm. Everyone Else is

Out there, there in the

Night, every day, night

In, night out, night

Owls without feathers

To flap over their empty

Guts as they spew spit

And cough phlegm into the 

Ruts on their palms

Long lines cutting round

Their thumbs, cut off 

Too soon, so the tealeaves

Would say, if they had

Tea, hot water and a cup and

 A spoon full of sugar to

Sweeten them into something

Warmer than blood