the ghost of the moon,
a sky of dark oaks,
its blacks deep cauldrons
breaking like twigs underfoot
its blacks tragic horizons
where the clouds stretch and dissolve.

the sea in ribbons,
blue lands of the tide,
surreal as summer
with her plastic suns,
her moons of smoke,
her endless rivers.

summer became a blue
pool, the sky swept away
all its dark streams,
the tide wept at our happiness
and we could not bear to be apart.

waves breaking on the
rocks,
flowing away,
far, far away
where the birds
weave like gold rivers into the night.

the night frosted in silver,
shadows and moons,
iron ghosts stretching
into the darkness,
unravelling the song
of the tide.

we descend
untidy birds fallen
so low there is no song
of birds.

moonlight through
summer
leaves, a ripple
on a pond,
enchantment
smouldering.

the wind wrapping
the water into grey ghosts,
the darkness twisting
like a flower.

as lonely as the tide,
love is out of reach,
the perfections of the
waves with their
tangy blue airs
like liquid silks.

tide,
waves falling
in the darkness.

loving you until
the stars start to melt
in the sky.

carved
out of the rocks,
water sung and diving,

in currents moving quickly,
sinking wave,
sinking wave.

lapping waves
the kiss of the water
the fire of the sun.

i’m broken
the way every writer is
broken and the words fall
out of the cracks.

fragments of the moon,
watery night,
out of the darkness
a flower unfolds.