Me to you

We can’t demand

Love any more than

We can change the

Colour of our eyes

But we can give

It and so free

Ourselves from the

Burden of Self.

A Morning, Late November


 Rod of silver

Wand struck

Soft on my head

Of thoughts laced

With sweet, dripping

Nectar beads

Sweet, dripping

Nectar drop.

The Sun shines

Nourishment on

Me on the bedclothes

And my day dawns

Thick, cool, clear

And tinged with

Autumn, crusts

Of the year, left to crumble, crunch

And pile their juices into compost

Fodder for the Spring.

I rise to meet

These orange-browns,

Lights dangling,

Lights drifting, drunken

Twirling through

The gusts,

Traffic wardens flick them off.

(26th November 2009)


Take yourself out of

Yourself, just far

Enough to see

Without your glasses

Where the trouble is,

The sore and stinging

Itch, the blister,

There, beside the

Heart, where

Anger and frustration

Have rubbed freckles

Raw and no more

Skin is left to

Shield the soul.


Having stopped to

Look, having seen

The pain, the plaster

Will do to stop

Infection spilling

From the broken

Rim of wound.

Soon the blood will

Do its work and anger will subsist,

Just be sure to

Keep things clean

With love and watchful


Being heard

To be heard

Is like neat gin,

Goes straight to the heart and

Warms it to a pitch

Unforeseen and heady.

How to know if

You are heard or

If your soul has

Fallen off the fruit bowl

To roll,

Bruised on the cold,

Flat floor.

No way of knowing

But the warmth of recognition

Has evolved as a transmission,

To be recieved,

Or not.