Pewter

Awakening to the metallic chatter of late starlings
on Rosemount's mossy rooftops,
the night's pewter veil lifts slowly with the fog.

An old garden at the bottom of a seaside hill,
derelict, abandoned; beautiful,
and all around tourists capture loosening
moments on film.

Loneliness crept through my bones
and dragged me into the ivy,
and there he was, sound echoing out
in that folkloric way
-woodsman/ bird; woodpecker.

I allowed the red of him
to reflect out
the last of the scene's winter rays,
before the morning came. 

Bog-bleater

We walk streets- filled with rain and Christmas.
as the fog fades away; gently.
Words-not quite shared, never fully hidden-
hold sway in the bog.
A green kitchen- dark, still, autumnal;
filled with honesty.

I open up old wounds, as the radio plays,
too quiet for our eager ears.
Your eyes-pure/true/bright,
catch me out, as November drizzle
falls softly down,
on heavy coats.

White

Iceland, Spring 2013

and yet there is such stillness; buried deep.

Meirge

Last night I dreamed
of heavy rain
-decaying, rhythmic, beautiful,
pounding on an old tin roof.
That northern sky, dark as buried mines,
filled slowly with rusty green dancers;
every lamp in the house was lit.

Mayday

http://vimeo.com/28854599

'One Mayday I awoke in a field on the isle of Mull . . . '

Garden

Two blackbirds flit in and out
of dead, fallen branches,
in a garden filled with
brand new colour
and a Belfast sink.
Ferns, green and hardy,
trail down from the roof
and the black iron window bars
have started to peel;
beautiful rust outside these
dove grey walls.

The daffodils have begun
to wilt, 
yellow giving way to blue.
Harebells find pathways 
through the woods
and I see apple blossoms
in a new light.
We talk of being children
in an era long gone
and I can smell sea-salt
on my open hands.

Foraging

Light lingers,
like the smell of thyme
on that newly born mountain.

Spring, fresh as birth/
wild as oak,
holds her tune.

Our river,
mysterious and ancient as the night,
rushes forth.

The past is younger than our fading youth.
I gather my mornings in close
and pick harebells in the evening's white glow.