A turn round a tree,
In the deep blue forest.
Quiet as we are, drowned by
The sea.

Blushing in the cool air,
Waking like mist,
Listening, as we are, as the great sky,
Is kissed.

We tremble, high in the air, like
Harp strings.
Silent as we are, separated by some
Feathery wings.

Some ethereal air,
Is cold on our lips.
Quiet as we are, in the mornings
Soft prayer.

Breathing on the damp ground,
Falling like leaves,
Hushed as we are, chased by great
Blood hounds.

A turn round a tree,
In the deep blue forest.
Quiet as we are, drowned by
The sea.

The windows on my painted sill,
Are covered by the winds and the spitting rain.
In my chamber, the sounds of thunder are bottled and shelved.
They roll just above my head, in the corners of my high ceiling,
Can’t reach them.

Stillness of the shadows in my dark room
are frightened by the light that is thrown from the murky sky.
The blackened sky, now light, they curse as they hiss and hide behind my wooden vanity.
And before the rumble of the thunder in my ceiling has begun,
they have crawled from the corners to be painted on the floor.

I wish to be the wind that beats itself against my window,
the waves that crash on distant sand and shores,
the blackened sky bruised
and bruising.

But how I wish I was not the glass and dusty window,
nor the shore that is beaten ‘till it is knowing nothing but movement and stillness.

How I wish I was not the chamber in which I sleep.
The chamber in which I sleep.

There was little left,
On the fields.
The rain had come and gone and it was dry again.
Dusty hands and dusty faces frowned.
Dusty shoes kicked the powder ground,
Heads hung low in the slouching and shaded doorway.

Squinting eyes looked up at the yellow bowl,
Hands covered creased foreheads,
Mouths chewed tobacco in the thin shade of a dying tree.
There was little left to talk about and little less to see.

Children lost marbles in the heavy dust,
And mothers take deep breaths.
The sky turns the colour of dirt and rust.
Another day gone and there is little left to love.

The rope was frayed and tightening and frightening
the hollow man
who held on with his black fingernails
and his brow furrowed as deep
as the well that echoed down the core of the world
until he couldn’t hear or care and he fell too ******* the
stones that littered the ground under the
broken buildings
which were too big to crumble like this
and the walls he had built and the
dust that he ate.
How tightening and frightening! How deep the brow!
How hallow the man that ate the dust
that ate the earth and frayed the rope!

The dust has settled on your pale old heart.
Do not touch me.
You cannot.
You try,
Try
,

A flutter in your hands,
A downy brush, murmur of touch.
‘hush, hush’ you whisper.
And feathers brush your palm, your fingers, your cupped hands.

‘quiet, quiet’ you coo, in some gentle, soothing way,
Your mouth close to your fingers,
So the whisper moves in light; soft and grey.

You can see through some crevice of hands,
The frightened eye, the quiet heart,
Beating, breathing, some quiet trembling song.
‘quiet, hush, don’t be frightened, don’t be scared.’

While clouds are moving in some far off sky,
A stroke of bronze, and touch of frost.
And in some frosted field, some valley’s cusp,
some quiet bird takes flight,
in a pulse of life, a deep cool breath, a surge of bronze light,
Some quiet birds take flight.

Two lonely people sit together on a lonely street
The table is broken and wobbles when he leans.
They are not lonely when they can’t remember,
And they hold on to their forgetting like winter to September.

He speaks and she smiles,
He laughs like a child.
They nod and the sigh as they both sadly say
‘it’s so easy to be separate when the world looks away’

‘I prefer to be unknown than loved and alone’
He stops laughing when she says this, she goes quiet and lips are still.
He’s got dirt beneath his fingers, she’s got lines across her hand,
‘I’m glad we can be quiet and still we understand.’

‘do you recall, our graceful fall, into the passionate pit of love.’
‘I could not forget the day that we met, nor the day we could call it love.’
‘It was September, I still remember. A cool setting day, the sun far away,
And you were closer than ever.’

They say ‘don’t be sad’.
She smiles and she shrugs, glad she has loved, but knows now they are both very old.
‘we’re both very old’ he says he feels cold,
‘I feel cold when I do not feel you.’


They’ve got lines 'round their eyes, and coats that haven’t dried, because the air is heavy and damp.
‘It feels like September, with you and me; remember?’
He’s the best thing she’s known, but it's a lonely throne,
and they know that too well.

The sky is not quite blue, it is a sad and quiet hue,
The milky white and silvery bright of the clouds can stain the skies,
Better than she or he can hide their teary eyes.
Both don their coats, and play their final notes, as they smile and say goodbye.

Two quiet people walk a quiet street.
They both feel the cool earth beneath their feet.
They are happy when they can remember,
The childish grins and the strings of September.

I trace my finger along the mountains,
My lungs fill with the frozen particles.
A sphere of silence warps my head,
It’s beautiful and dangerous and something instead.

I trace my finger along the ravines,
I dip my hair in the dripping stream.
I dip my toe in the snow where I bled,
It’s cold and biting and something instead.

I trace my finger along the trees,
I’m painted in their blooming breeze.
I lie with the flowers in their flower bed,
It’s silent and soft and something instead.

I trace my finger along the mist,
My lips still line the sky that I kissed.
I watch the clouds; heavy as lead,
It’s far and close and something instead.

I trace my finger, along the rough shore,
It’s grey with fatigue, lazy and bored.
The oceans speaks, but I can’t catch what they said,
It’s constant and tired something instead.

I trace my finger along the ivy vines,
Their thin bodies grow and intertwine.
I look down at my feet, at the leaves that they shed,
It’s comforting and sad and something instead.

I trace my finger along the misted mountain heads,
My lungs fill with the blue atmosphere,
My heart fills with the sweet dew scent,
If just for a second,
Then I open my eyes and see something instead.

The stars and the moon peer down from their dark cacoon,
At the man who walks upon the shadowed fields.
The lights of the town, sit flickering atop the swollen hill,
They will not sleep nor will they lie still.

What a beautiful place to be lost and unknown.
To run your hands where the wind has not yet blown.
But he does not know this, lest he loses his confidence,
And continues as though he knows where to go.

The valley is wrapped in the beautiful cold,
Where the stars do not warm and the wind does not blow.
The cold that holds warmth down in its belly,
The stomach of the beast. ‘Not to fret’; says he.

The air below the sky and above the valley,
Is strange and it’s quiet; not light, nor is it heavy.
The air coddles him and asks him questions,
And looks him in the eyes as though they’ve not met him.

From the corners of the earthy bowl, the wind howls and blows and bites,
And sting his eyes and make him cry,
And kiss and ***** his stinging face,
And wrap him in their cold embrace.

Still, he walks, through the golden sheaths,
The trees on the border talk ‘neath their heavy leaves.
Close to him you can hear his breath,
Warm and cold and deep in his chest.

The bones of the sky are milky white,
And the arms of the earth embrace the night.
‘Defy me’. Says he, and ‘discover me’, says they,
‘Before our arms are wrinkled and old and our bones are cold and grey.’

‘Break me and bind me, but you can’t defy me.’
‘search me and map me, but you won’t truly know me.’
For it is he and it is I that beg you to defy,
The very thing that we create, the success we crave and the mistakes we make.
How weak we are when we think we’re strong,
And how we know they are right and we wish we were wrong.
But pull me from my reverie and make me cry and make me see,
That it is better to be in your dark cacoon
than to be as sad as your milky moon.