For * N o r t h *

* S O R R O W * is only when you're waiting for the light to come back. 

North

Soft, translucent light shoots down from a far-away place
as the landscape turns green, again, slowly.
Pale neon lichen on top of storm-beaten branches
and I remember Vik; snow falling horizontally onto raven black sand.

Soundscapes of swans and deep white stillness
fills up my insides
and I know that it is coming back, once more;
the circle has started to turn.

* b e a u t y i n d e c a y *

b r o o k e p a r k

there is a pink-footed light
spilling out of brooke park
against the grey haze of evening. 

you would have been 100 today
and the world has exhaled
softly, 
secretly;in hope.

I smell the rain above this historic city
and wait for the wind to come;
from the flames.

trust

you carry l i g h t 
in your crackled hands
and i wait for morning
to shine its first moon glow
in through the winter
w h i t e
of day

Any storm

Your eyes find cluster constellations

that mine can't quite map, yet.

Smoke fills the evening sky

as Jupiter shines down

on the icy bogside;

december's first night.

Ink on skin finds points

of no return;

moons in every phase to come.

Talk of caravans and lists

on damp paper

fill your kitchen

with hope and confusion.

And then you ask me

for 'Scaffolding',

and I know our wall 

will weather any storm;

any storm that comes.

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.