White strobe

beams descending;

mites of dust – millions –

spiral down, forever falling.

A head bent forward, bright eyes

peruse a wall of text.

Artefacts surround,

wood, bronze, iron;

examined, gazed upon, a story

of evolution grasped and clung to.

Mirrored walls and stone faces

stare blind at this visitor,

just another intruder.

The encoded scriptu...

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Poison vapours

etched in gloom.

Ghastly, void,

vacant, the guardian of

a chained black gate.

Never sleeping;

eyes, as heads,

unnumbered;

waiting for heroes

to seal their fate.

In legends torn

from clay cast bright

we may witness

fire and blades and bows;

such blood-fuelled spite.

Now all too real;

slowly shed,

the skin of time;

a...

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I scaled the heights, and let me

confess now of their beauty;

razor-sharp rock, heather coarse,

blown fibres from a rainy north.

Sitting on the edge of these

steps, in a vigorous breeze,

the land falls away, time’s plaything,

whilst eons fade on the wind’s wing.

Valleys, cities, factories, spires

of churches, through a foggy mire;

questions floating through my head,

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I didn’t know what it was like

in the sea, I only imagined

cold, depth, darkness;

a sliver of the unknown;

‘The Inchcape Rock’ – Peter Graham,

1908, that which stayed

pinned to my father’s wall;

a navy blanket slung careless, crumpled.

And strange to think

at sunrise, the mist would seem

to cover, then to clear, and wave

for the gulls to pass on through,

wh...

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Frozen, they placed heavy footprints

on hard-packed foliage, etched ice;

the withered bark stretched around

in slanting lines, near-collapsing.

Moving these weights, one step, two;

these notions in a February mist;

regrets like the broken skies above,

where clouds drift dark with mingled smoke

from fires marking from whence they came.

But no scars give away their cr...

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Once, upon, a time…

Is that how it went?

And did it follow that

they said

those allotted words, those

mined from the red hot

pits of thought,

shaped and resized;

tamed, wearily eyed?

And there, in a large,

gloomy house:

our hero, spending days

pacing halls too big for

the right adjectives to name.

They sit, press their

flickering hands together

...

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I stepped slow, drunkenly down

a half-shadowed rough road at noon;

no more than a sliver of dust,

a dirt track, borders pale in ruin.

No labour it was, but pleasant,

above a sky of summer blue;

yet autumn’s grasp it lay upon

the boughs, branches; a breezy tune.

And in a glade of silver hue,

of spider webs and thrushes’ nests;

beyond, there boomed in stereo,

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Straight and narrow

or wide and winding;

warm in a waning sun.

Steadily flowing, asphalt, tarmac

streaming under hedgerows.

And this, the thicket,

a riverbank clogged

with twisted, taut metal

that glitters, half-hearted;

with one million and one

sniggering cars passing.

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I find, always, when looking out

of your window, I can see

what has come, has gone and what

is yet to be.

Rain, sun, and rain, perhaps merely

a seasonal thing;

a tempest of sorts before the tide

unclasps its cling

on a battered shoreline.

Beyond the sea,

behind the smeared glass

a new dawn tempts me

to rouse you from your sleep;

whispering sounds like fr...

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How do the birds fly?
Soar, swoop, dive
on the cool grey morn
through
staccato, sea breezes?

How do you sit there
and watch the clocks
tick glum on cracked mantels
when
all must surely change?

I glimpsed these sights, two,
through a curtained wall.
Decided to take
the truer path,
opening the window
to learn what could be learnt.

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Ochre, ochre, ochre...

Ochre blotches, betray the dry breath
of June.
As we bring home
the August supplement.

Last week's answers, merely
bring more questions.
And I ask,
why is he so cryptic?

That which thunder keeps at bay...
Heat? Light?
Stagnation...
A stuffed solar shirt.

On TV, the fuzzy grey cross-hatching
swathes our green
and pleasant land
(t...

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In midnight's grasp you stand before
me naked on the dew swept lawn;
limbs frozen, stiff, misshapen,
pale joints stretched, your challenge sworn.
In lunar light, your shivering
ascent on the rusted rungs builds
anticipation, from the ground;
not stopping at the prospect's thrill.

Repeat ritual, your holy hour;
eyes in rapturous ecstasy;
pointing stiff your hands outward,
...

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Fade away my dear.

Fade away as you have squandered

the years that fell on deaf ears.

Old hands point to the skies

and at dusk trace circles

eternal reflections in the sea's mirror.

Separation, right from wrong

the line is blurred as sand and foam.

From high

these tears recede, at night

leaving driftwood, still

quiet.

From networks in ...

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