Are you coming in, vicar? The night is getting cold,
The sky is dark, the trees are quiet,
and it won't hurt to have a small one.

Let me take your coat sir, come and sit beside the fire.
A whiskey? there you are,


I've always wondered why you haven't married -
surely a man of the cloth must be in want of a wife?

Vicar, if you'll allow me, you have something on your cheek,
that collar looks frightfully uncomfortable;
just leave it on the mantle there,
I see the way you look at me during sermon.

I've loved you always, Will, say you feel the same.
God, my darling, I love it when you whisper my name.

Double, double, let’s get in trouble,
Let’s invoke the gods of mischief and the moon.
I wield a wand, an owl, a milky white eye,
Let’s get lightheaded, and see how free we can be.

Plied and drunk on words and musings,
We watch and wait for spirits to circle us.
I lose myself between slivers of light in the darkness.
Let's talk in tongues, and see how free we can be.

The end is nigh, I told them.
It's belted up in that suede jacket of yours,
smoking in the half-light of attic bookshelves.
This night is unclean, I said unto her,
leathered and whimpered, wined and placated.
Have you seen this girl? Hair shines pale under a woollen hat,
answers to "End",
looks good in lipstick and stockings and sweet nothings.
Decant that red charm of yours, madam ghost, I'll pour.

Late at night near a rural shelter, a wizened figure hobbles closer.
With chapped lips he drags on a bone pipe,
the warm smoke hangs in the air.
I stand still, breathe it in politely until my throat itches.

I'm told a tale of some faraway town
and a girl, his daughter, who left one night without explanation.

As an owl hoots somewhere behind us,
He wipes away a tear. It leaves a clean track through the layers of soot and grime.

A dog barks in the distance and the hedge full of cicadas almost drowns out his whispered, dreary tale.
I cough and move to reach for my wallet. He doesn't see.
He has started to shuffle away,
murmuring to himself about how she never made it back home.

Early hours on a Friday morning,
and the surf's up on a sunny
beach in Wales.
Nestled between giants' stones that scrape the vast sky,
these silent sands are hidden
from the world.
An ivory treasure,
bourn on foreign tides long ago.
The Sun reigns here, night into day in a pinkish blur,
caressed by white and blue-grey waves.
She trails along the path,
towel and bathing suit
clutched under an arm
making her way towards
that which calls her
that goddess, ultimate, plunge and pool.
Her life, a whirling light too fragile to be gambled on rocky currents
but always, she finds a breath here.
a seaside-sanctuary of seagulls sqwuak and summer bliss -
She is Forever swimming,
and Caerfai Dreaming.

The house creakes away at the top of the hill, some say.
Oak floors groan under the wind's breath,
Lamplight flushes across the landing.
Silver-white toes brush the rug in the moonlight
and silk skirts softly rustle on flagstones.
Or was it a castle? Old as ivy,
with beaten black stone, mahogany vaulting
sleepless armour and the façade of power.
Perhaps it was a shack in the forest,
higgledy piggledy, animal skins,
black wood smoke and a *** brewing on the stove.
Our tales are told in shadow, the cover of night,
We lust after stories in perfect candlelight.

A cottage spell, snail shells
and sycamore leaves under my nails,
I am dreamlike,
Pressed linens reek of lavender.
The mirror on your dresser is cracked~
Was it a stray dove?

Foxgloves press against sugarpanes,
a rose garden bends to listen closer.
This apricot pudding is my third lover.
Swathe me in ****** lambswool,
blush my cheeks with grass stains.

as I say I am, the sky makes me so,
I kiss the farmhand blondly, pinkly,
My eyelashes are tangled and my hairbrush gleams like a dark spider.

And in the morning,
the hills swallow me up,
I want to be at one with stone walls and cow cud.
To stem and bud like a funeral rose,
Loving Ad Infinitum.

Dust Devils in between the sheets
Moth smell, dreamlike
A small and friendly memory
Let the morning sun pour in
Musted air and brown teakwood
Dusty sun in dusty eyes

Smooth the cotton, pale and sweet
Lace touch, fresh smell
Crinkled to infinity
Dust devils in their linen paradise

Tiny lights within her amber eyes
flash like pools of silver.
Cicadas call into the night, a forest choir, dark and soothing,
while a glittering mass slumbers in the trees.
The forest snores lazily, on the droning lilt of a midnight breeze.

Pale hair, pale skin
Blue eyes that hold all her secrets
Like small ponds, surrounded by
matted ferns. Dark and sticky.
I loved her once. We went to Vegas
I watched her throw back her head in joy
Her laugh wasn't perfect, but it was real
thick and warm, like honey.
If I really remember, make my mind squint back into our foggy last weeks together
I can still see the lights of the strip behind her happy face
Hair tousled and fluffy, lips pushed together to announciate t's and drawl out vowels
Her shirt stretched over her modest chest
She shopped for vintage pieces and loved vinyl
But not like I loved her. Her breath was sugar, her perfume like violets on a summer evening
She smoked marlboro but didn't care it was poisoning​ her.
Long evenings were spent in silence, the dark city lights watching as we sat on an old couch in front of a movie.
One day I came home and she was in bed with the girl from 3B
So I told her I was sorry, that I wasn't enough
I didn't want to waste her time.
That was 4 months ago. Now I live further down the street
Above the little record shop she frequents
I see her walking out with her paper bag of old 12" records, grunge rock or classical piano peices.
She was a girl that I loved once.

A glossed window, dark pool,
lake Excalibur,
a phantom face swims before her
and it makes for an interesting study of character.

Rain swells and soaks on the sidewalk,
so she trips away on slick heels.
If she does her hair just right,
will a white knight find her?
She wishes he would jolly well hurry up.

So, back in an empty flat,
she darkens her lashes and rouges her knees,
she misses those starlit, champagne yesterdays.
One day she will tango into his arms.

Take up your fur coat,
don the little black suit of armour.
I hate to say it:
I don’t think he’s coming yet, sweetheart.

hot cracked earth, fierce cigarette
dark, dark hair on fired sand.
subtle gasp,  failure to grasp
my remaining chords of sanity
I give myself to rock and roll!

kisses on my wind scorched lips,
whisky tainted,
orange dusted,
belonging to my delirium.
darkness in the cosmic pit
sinking in these star-crossed dunes
Campfire burns, hot earth churns,
A thousand whispered promises.

hot red wind and night-time fire
the quiet strum of your guitar
vultures circle, dry and wet,
I spend my love on these bone sands
a sweet Nevadan promise land

love burns gold, sunray's glow
circles in the hot dry earth
breath of wind, a calming buzz
hisses near, promise of venom
a poison bite, bloodless flow
I warm myself in desert sun
and **** that perfect passion man.

Photographs blown in Saharan breeze
faded, dusty memories
Egyptian particles of stone
Hazy air and moonlight touch
Skull runs dry, rusted love
A thousand whispered promises.

A one night show, cheap liquor and ***
breath of fierce cigarette
sand in eyes, night burns hot
moon rises on tides the sea forgot
Dried up dreams and lost forever
A sweet Nevadan promise land

I yearn for a desperate love
that I do not know,
And dream to find things I cannot find.
I ache for another whom I’ve never seen.
Beneath my closed lids in bed at night
Visions float just out of reach,
Of rubies and pearls and a loving prince.
How I yearn for a century
that has passed me by.
Oceans of time and love must wait
For one such as me to fall into a fairytale.
My skin will never know their touch,
Nor their heartbeat or heat, nor their kiss.
A sorrow so hopeless, and so absolute
Has gripped me for something I cannot miss.

We would embark before daybreak,
cut through the bustle of a busy airport,
then drift over a fog of clouds,
childhood innocence returned for a few precious hours.
Take silly polaroids of a window's view of paradise.
When we touch down, I would wheel you on a luggage trolley, laughing all the way into the cab,
then nervously flick through a three dollar city guide.
At nightfall out in the sticks, our cabin windows would cast a warm light over the tops of pine trees,
wolves and ghosts roaming the shadows.
In the crisp air of the morning I would walk out onto the balcony in my underwear, mug of coffee clasped tightly,
pale legs stretched out as I tiptoe on the frosty boards.
The sun would peak out from the horizon, and birds would dive and screech above me.
We would go rowing out on the lake, wrapped up in ugly scarves and big sweaters,
The dark water swishing around our oars quietly.
When we journey to Washington, our tickets will be one way.
I will cling to that life forever.

An angel watches o'er the night,
A goddess amongst seraphim,
She flies abroad in high kingdoms
And blazes silent stars alight;

She ices clouds in pale blue skies,
Saves all for cherubim's eager tongues.
Whilst Venus waits for her in bed
She hums a peal from rosy lungs.

O! To hear her shimmer of a laugh!
To see her fog of sugared breath
a man would stake his brother's heart,
Or lie 'gainst the devil's black'ned breast,

For she is the moon's far fairer twin,
Cradled 'twixt the Sun and Mars,
Who drapes the sky to heavy night
and stitches holes for golden stars.

I would like to be the girl in white,
with rosy cheeks, and porcelain skin.
Plump and pale-freckled like a hen’s egg,
with a laugh like peals of golden bells,
and a jar of lavender on my windowsill.
~
In the dark and silent night,
I’d shine a lamp over the water
so fleets of sailors long starved of beauty
could glimpse the outline of my chest,
Hugged tight by ghostly silk, and flushed with warmth.
~
To wander along the sand dunes, barefoot with basket in arm,
To sing a long-lost melody so pure that cherubs think me their mother.
Meanwhile, greyish waves idly lull the townsfolk to bed.
In their sugared, posied dreams,
An angel walks quietly along a shore,
The girl that lives in the lighthouse on a hill.
~

One more midsummer's eve, just one,
and then I shall become
some pale and ill-fated maiden, bound in the chain links of rosaries in milord's cavernous prayer hall.

Wearing a bride's opal ring, like a teardrop from heaven.
Some infernal dove wept for me
and I boast it on my left ring finger.

Woes hang close. Mine weight me like a tea chest's worth of knotted pearls, or a bridal corset laced marvellously tight.
I flash and darken like a jewelled dragonfly,
dizzied by my own light show, never pausing for breath.

The candle stubs burn weak now.
In the shivery dawn light,
the night air still hangs close and heavy,
Like a thick cloak of regal velvet that I may don
and in doing so disappear forever;
mute, placid, lovely,
a shadow.

Fields are sown with muckle corn,
And ruby roots, and dust of bread,
And tended by a buxom girl
With plaits wound round her golden head.

Her womb a dripping, ripened fruit,
Eaten by a sleeping babe,
A product of her fervent lust,
Seduced amongst the summer hay.

A flashing smile, and muscled thigh,
And hand gripped round her slimmer curves,
The smoke and ale upon his breath
commingle with her urgent love.

On our horizon there is a silent field;
dark, but becoming white and gentler.
Light is still unknown.
It has learnt the lover's caress of falling snow.  

The snow will not know it is white until our torches look-
but the stars wink down knowingly.
To the left of our field is hot cocoa and the hallway light under the door.
To the right of our field is Ali Baba's lantern and a thousand spangles on the sod.

The snow feels for our faces, each step offering no forgiveness.
Look- there is the nursery chair! and the solidness of the linen cupboard;
an owl screams his warning of dawn breaking.

To be loved is to be made warm;
to feel a fire in the grate.
To gaze through the panes at a silent field, and not yet know
the cold of freshly settled snow.

look, this is a love letter,
addressed not to you
but to a june evening,
give me salty tears and strawberries,
empty wine bottles and a thin sundress.
i want to shiver in the evening air,
lounge on the grass, laughing too loud,
leave me to rot of love in a grassy meadow.

Pale flakes float to charcoal slate,
Tumble onto hard packed ice
that has already engulfed  the garden path.
Scratched frost, crystals with silent stinging bite.
They line the garden fence and cap the swingset.
November nights are drawing in,
it's nov. third, and the kettle sings next to a calendar of red crosses, marking the days that have passed me by and the "sleeps until" for the twins. A quiet kitchen, womb to the outside world until the door opens - a shocking birth into a white winter. November has always been a rushed month, a countdown, a month for planning, details
and not quiet stopping.
For now, I enjoy the quiet before the storm, or has the blizzard  already been and gone?
The snow will thaw, and where will we be
When all the nights of November are over.

Ivory frosting gorges us nightly,
Where wolves sleep in doorways
And our comrades shoot crows
For the shock of red blooming.

And our churches are roofless
Where rats nest in kneelers.
Crucifixes are idols, gods,
Pressed to lips that mutter phrases
Better known to mice than men.

The birds whisper bright things
From their warm little hollows
Where a fire may be kindled
And the walls aren’t as damp.

Slip your stockings off,
and joyously tread through the cold  grass in the evening shade,
The greenhouses shine like Arabian palaces amongst raspberry thickets.

Was the garden always this green?
Pale skirted, plum lipped,
We slip into a silken strawberry dream,
Dosing as the wind tosses our hair to and fro.

He murmurs: shall I compare thee to a summer day?
We take our pearls off and swim,
Shining and pale,
Carried away like willow leaves upon silver currents.

A bachannalian cry rings out amongst teeming masses of stars.
Kiss me amongst the apple trees,
Make moss your pillow and bumblebees your teddy bears.

Her love spills out like scarlet seeds,
and red wine rolled on jealous tongues,
and gold leaves nestled in her hair.
It feathers during secret deeds

whilst breath is passed between two lungs.
Rubies cluster at her throat
like blood clots that her flesh forgot.
She draws him to her, limb in limb,
a desperate love dressed up in quilts.

The seeds that bloomed begin to rot,
and candles die, and lust grows dim,
hence never shall he gasp her name,
or she wish to be close to him.

I long to be naked
And shivering
Dive into the cold, rich earth of a plowed field.

To lie face down on a bed of icy grass,
North winds flying over my bare back.

For moss to grow up my ribs and around my neck,
And ferns to tangle around my fingers.
I long for smooth roots to encircle me in a silent embrace.

I long to drape myself over a soft log
So ivy would embellish my hair
Without stopping to ask my name,
For I do not want to know myself.

We spent last summer wound in each other's arms
In the front of my beat up Ford S80.
Her blouse would be half unbuttoned and she'd always smell of lemon pancakes and old pine-wood.
I remember the sunsets; in the rear-view mirror the sky would glow behind her, light her hair up like an angel's halo.
We would pull into a gas station, I'd get out first, open her door from the outside like they did in the movies.
I'd pump the gas and she'd go into the store for something, a coke, refreshers, a cup of black coffee.
They always made it from grounds, in one of those glass jugs.
We'd drive on into the night, welcoming the cool desert air,
then we'd pull over into some motel and open the blinds.
We could lie there forever, staring up at the whirring ceiling fan, wrapped in those noisy, crisp sheets.
We'd make love to the sound of cicadas and the faint chitchat on RadioWax.
Then the sun would come up and we'd move on again.
As August came and went, so did our desert nights,
and now I only see her in the polaroid that sits on my nightstand.

She moved to Seattle in '99,
Poet, Lover, bar-hopper,
bought an apartment on 4th avenue.
She wrote poems for the papers.
She'd leave work early, coffee in hand,
and sit in the park to watch the leaves turn.
An auburn lake, mist creeping onto her lap,
Tartan skirt and Turtle-neck weather.
Only 22, She grew Sunflowers
and traded them for milk at the local convenience store.
She had big hopes for a job in Chicago,
but turned it down when she met the bartender
that suddenly changed her mind about bar-hopping.
They bought a little yellow house in Mirrormont,
and the leaves from the state park
drifted lazily into their yard of sunflowers,
which she no longer needed to trade for milk.
She'd moved to Seattle in '99,
as an English girl with too little time.