Driving home through a mist,
A post by the side of the road
Holds a Sparrowhawk.
Like an everyday totem pole.
Like a carving of an ancient
king.
On a simple wooden throne.
Like wood bird alchemy.
Throwing us a spell.
Like an offering of mystery
In our cocktail
Of certainty.

Your brown feathers are turning white
Waiting for adult wings to carry you off.
The water is clear
As you graze on the river bed
So close you hold us silent.
We listen to your shape
See how you sound
Half fish
Half bird now.
You bend us
Like light refracted
On this ancient modern stream.
Like warp.
We dream into your name
And swan dive with you
In this time.

We are out
For a walk.
We cross an old stoney bridge.
Low lying flat stones
Hold its history.
We look at the water,
Talking of fishing rights and such.
There, resting,
Over a foot long,
A Trout!
Brown as the bridge
That saves it from the current.
Hanging in the water.
Resting in liquid silver,
You lullaby us
Our fast streams mastered for now.

I see you on a wall
By a mill pond.
Little Philemon
An unearthly turquoise
Stills us.
Stops and
Holds us.

The maths of the moment,
A trickster tune,
Beguiles us.
A quadrangled pool
You dive 4 times
We are 4.

We leave.
You too, Fisher king.
Some unwordly
Concept passes between us
A square noted scribble.
A mystery message .

It was 5 a.m.
Owls hooted,
Holding Parliament,
Honey hooting the night Goodbye.

You talk of pain.
I have none.
She hoots, holding my tongue gently,
Lest I tred too loudly on your hurting.

I heed her
Bend to a greater *** of gold
Than we both can muster.
Hurt passes.

The trees take in the owls.
Breaths out crows.
The sky like blue cotton
Lays its fabric on the day.

Pines reach like a scale of 1 to 10
Pyramids of God and science.
I ride a train tracking a coastline of
Secrets and seals.
Where golden ferns whisper paths
Through the land.

Here in your house
The sound of my blood in veins
Bounces off the walls at night
We are so deep in a silent vale.

I am sergeant to your boredom and you to mine
We occupy and inhabit.
Kept like the spices in your cupboard
A little too long past their best.

My writing becomes possessive.
I sit down too hard
On an easy chair
Slip on the shiny leather surface
Smooth from overuse.
Down to ground.

I have nothing to uphold
No sculptured walls
Protect my castle.
No dowager queen dwells safely inside.
Lying in change space
Open to reshaping