Imagine a day.

Not any particular day,

just a day, one like any other.

One born in the bright dawn

of a morning.

A day that dies like any other

under the death shroud

of the night sky.

Imagine a day

where ordinary things,

the morning's coffee

the commute to work

the lunchtime walk

the sounds,

just the sounds of the day,

and the evening

just the ...

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It starts as nothing more than air.

The curl of frozen breath or a

hint of smoke collapsed on the wind

icing latent tress laid bare.

Carried through winter's dark womb

of hard silver frosts. Muted snow

a million silent lights, sharp

in the stiffening cold, a harp-

song of hope. Until suddenly

it's obvious. Obvious like

the moon, full on a cloudless night,

through t...

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Rain as small rivers on the train window
refracts grey light, distorts landscapes
moving backwards towards the origin.

Distance swallowed in cloud,
colours washed until the remains
are indeterminate shapes and sky.

Ah the sky! So bloated and low.
Could I reach, push it back,
reveal hidden horizons?

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The rain falls in vindictive little spikes

On this cold May afternoon. The month

Claws itself from the endless winter towards

A season lurking beyond the horizon

Consumed in the darkening Brume.

A figure stands on the corner, stooped

With collar stiff in vain protection. 

The mirrored pavement reflecting a form

As withered as the look he flashes

At the ...

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I have reposted this with some minor changes suggested by helpful contributors to WOL

As I sit upon

This empty bed

White cotton frayed

From nights

That punctuate 

This thin veneer

Of wakefulness

I look for traces of you.

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As I sit upon

This empty bed

White cotton frayed

From nights

That punctuate 

This thin veneer

Of wakefulness

I look for traces of you.

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What light across the cloudless bay

Falls placid on thy peerless face

Relected on the now calm sea?

That in its rage did toss in

Tidal abandon the wreckage

Of the human condition cast

Recklessly from the shore.

Do not despair nor fling thy dreams

From this vapid spit which clings by

Wiry Marram to this wretched

Isle, detritus ringed on littoral

...

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These books that lie

beside your bed

in towers that climb

beyond this spartan room,

Hold words that -

as I watch you read -

form dreams upon

your stormless face;

And free from the

anchor of the day

I see you fly

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