Monthly Archives: December 2013

the drawing

have you seen a drawing,
bold, that hits your heart,

licks and smudges
make the picture
of a man.

yet look sideways, it may
be you, or her, each day

there is something different
in the mirror.

each way, drawing you in.

it is framed. as are you now.
there is no photograph.



the counting

the end of the year, time for the counting,
time to number, categorise, remember the things,
lost. the people.

the list is endless, we highlight, tick, arrange
in rows, the stuff of our lives, the shirts and
nonsense. we mend the family clothes,
while ours are unrepaired. a whole day


he brought the logs, more than i imagined.




all things change,
except they say, one.
changes come.

squirrels and disarray.

river ebbs, flows, tidal,
otter marks erased, the lane

quiet now. locals walk, leaves stir.

in passing remember those.

birds fly up, we laugh again.

he gave red wine, will bring logs.


it may be saturday

days of our memory,
days of our thought.

i have been taught
repeatedly not to believe

the things i think.

seems i am not even
a heathen. the bishop

tells me so.

i thought the cat was lost,
i think it is saturday.

after christmas.



have you collected seeds
of many years, packed,
labelled, dated.

have you died, and left
the table unprepared.

i have them now in boxes,
a gift, from those who love.

they will bring me work, joy,
an independent air, profound words,
from those who care.

are we all naive?

i think i am.



the weaver of raveloe

it is a ritual, it is the music,
the loom, the gestures, the

night before christmas,
hand over mouth, awe

and wonder. some sounded
fire works, dogs cowered.

some sounded bells, calling
the village to come.

some stayed at home, wondered
at the small things surrounding.

the weaver of raveloe.

linen thread.


the visitor

storm predicted, wind swept,
the visitors came, to report
the leak was dripping
on the soap and mothth.

my bath room.

it has been a week of water,
seeping the cellar, blowing
the window wide, wreaking

the soap was laid gently,
a radiator, pears.

the mothth on a cottin flannel
to air.

they both dried, thanks
to my visitor.

I stayed home all day.



the lane

have you drank four tified wine,

guessed years have passed.

walked the lane daily, to see a

small world outside, have you

poked the crevasses, gathered twigs,

for lighting. taken photographs?

have you crashed into the old wood,

looking for the birds, found new growth,


have you seen monks walk the lane,

smelled the wax? have you seen the imprint,

the stone, st illtud?

i have.



Notes:- this is the photograph tree,

dog otter prints below.this is memory.


the mass, the clouds lay heavy,

rain that came, that blinded


blinded those that could not see

the love and idle artefacts, each one

a statement of nothing in particular.

phased those that drove the cwm

in site of home, that stopped, saw


water that seeps, insidiously into mind,

spoils all things.

things that can be mended.

he said that most people throw broken plates away.