Failing light

After the squall

another step up the stony staircase

another step closer.


A striding beacon

towering in the middle distance

signalling that to come.


Each step fragile

memories pass father to son

a failing light burning bright.



Communication cord

The bridge had lost its lustre; that feat of engineering which spanned

the easy ebb and flow and troubled spates and spats.

The cantilevered communication cord between parallel banks of opinion

scarred with scribbles, oversaw the writing on the wall for lesser structures.

The odd creak but a reassuring solidity remained nonetheless.

There was an occasional facelift of course, a fresh burst of enthusiasm now and then

but even neglected it still outlived many life spans, generations of storms.

A monument to its simplicity and truth.



A wild moon threatens the still

spruce silhouetted on the skyline.

The shadow hound stalks at pace,

scent marking his territory at will.

The owl screeches, wise to the time

whilst the seeker whistles prematurely

and a mother barks warning her kind.

The haunting echo of the distant roar

taunting the neighbouring balladeers,

a prelude: the percussive climax to come.



too soon, too soon

too soon to say

whether I miss them

whether I’m just tired

whether the weather is getting me down

whether the tide waits for no man

whether that’s just for those without a plan

whether I’ll hide, survive or drown

too soon to say

too soon, too soon


Finding my line is all well and good

but it does not help to flood

my lungs with the oxygen I so desperately need

to feed my blood

so I can soar away from the pain and succeed

rather than bleed and sink gasping

grasping for some hope and some sign

of a glorious descent

and the line drawn by another

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The culinary nest of delight

I was going to write a poem

but where do you start to depart

from fact to Facebook fiction

from the fact that your kitchen

deviates from the public depiction

of a culinary nest of delight

rather it resembles scrambled

celebrity scroungers of the night

with the delicate aroma

of napalm in the morning


Summer showers pass, the fast does not last,

Except for the poor straying souls that starve;

Still expected to remedy the past

Misdemeanours they did not themselves carve.

Reluctant to release its fiery nip,

Autumn holds onto its cold, brazen frost;

Occasional thaws calm a brittle tip,

Anxiety leaves as red trees count the cost.

Deep winter blankets cushion, howls and blows,

Comfort drawn from the store is forgiving.

The starry visitation comes and goes,

We remember that life is worth living.

Spring, oh at last, does bring ample bounty;

Time to feast – fruit released from its beauty.

Exit right

It’s beyond the day after

and the aftermath does not add

to our joy or our laughter

but summons our pain

– reminiscent of infant earache –

underlying, intensifying, uncontrollable:

screaming for a solution to take

the bitter taste of the pill

from our hearts, our minds

suffering from our brother’s ills

– awaiting a dawn after the night –

in the muddy ruins of twilight.