Between the cool-quarried kitchen
and paint-faded south facing door
runs a windowless wall
sugar-papered with childhood dreams.

Memories of roughly folded gifts
squirreled in satchels,
crossed creases still intact;
curled corners fixed with shiny pins.

Luminescent paint heartens the darkness of a pitch grotto
anticipating a flicked switch
to illuminate dimmed histories
of abstract symbols, visionless figures and countless fingers.

The small pink fists that captured
Time's most precious pieces,
now live with vaguely painted hope
of sheering unsteady walls
in their uncertain world.

When day closes on late shadows
and small hilltop houses stand as flat silhouettes,
their blinking eyes squinting towards the valley floor
badged with late-grazing grey sheep,
my father stands at ease, hands burrowed in soil-grained dusty pockets,
chin tilted towards moist fields of churned clay,
their blackened furrows converging at a distant curve.

Soon the slim fingers of cypress will softly stroke a rising moon
and at my father's back, the porch light will shed its warm glow
onto the rough path and the stone well,
where an ancient rusting bucket idly hangs
by a tangled chain.
And in the gathering darkness, the clouds will part
to reveal a void in the Heavens.
And he will gaze as always in awe
held in a transient spell counting, like blessings,
the burgeoning stars
as he wrestles with reason, the frailty of life.

And enchanted he will enter the spartan house
to briefly reflect his certain future,
leaving the smothered hills in still air
to share peace with themselves.
And from their safe earth and dense thickets,
small creatures will emerge
to face their own fate without question.

Is it instinctive or are we given the right or ability
to play our part in this extravagant dining?
We tremble in anticipation in this enchanted forest,
waiting breathlessly for the next amuse bouche.

Maggie mouths the words but no sound comes out.
The sound is in her head, round and smooth,
fighting shards of spite and lies.
(She wants to scream).

Maggie's not so dumb;
she's naturally wrapped inside a cloud
of how she thinks the world should be and
wonders if the power of thought or unknown force
could shut their mouths and open minds
but knows it's much too late-
she has a train to catch.

These rooms are empty now.
No movement of cool air
between one door opening as another closes
over a fine layer of dust on the polished floor.
No untamed billow of transparent fabric
to snag on the time-worn chair.
Just silvered specks dancing in slanted beams
through a curtainless window -
and so much space!

This morning your hair smells of jasmine
and the weave of your sweater is fixed with waxy stars.
Early you went out to prune the wild tendrils,
while drawn from sleep I turned to kiss your skin
but found you'd gone.

Then as you set the breakfast cups
I watched you from the bedroom door, yearning to entwine you
while your flowery scent still lingered.

This morning your hair smells of jasmine
and the weave of your sweater is fixed with glistening stars.

Someone's flung a fist of golden showers
hillside of the brook;
scattered snowflakes – dotted them
inbetween the overpowering sage's scent
and violet heathery hues.
Overnight, Someone's unseen eye's
designed a palette from
' The Book of Unknown Colours.'
Someone came upon this place and had
an instant rush of love.