respiring corridors
   interior hospital night

outside
                silenced
                         ­         the winter
away facing
                       patient pacing

    in palliative care
for the age-ed out expiring
     iterations of ejecting death
       darkly dressed haggy wet breaths
        beds engaged
          berths of great ferment

corridor ; raked in
corridor ; ridden out squalling

a patient who has yet to reach
   the concluding condition of his fellows
bellows
   'Shut The **** Up'
mad for sleep
he's lost compassion

The corridor labours on

I will never be what I wanted to be . . .

. . . as I sit on the dunes looking at the sea . . .

I contemplate what was , what is , what is due

I watch the waves come in and crash , recede , and crash again

So were my chances that came in waves , receded and crashed again

My life's foundation resides on these impermanate dunes

I cannot stand for long on the shifting sands ,
changing with the winds of time , before I am forced to move

Motion made me . . .
The vibration of the small details
I know you know but you never told me

I will never be what I wanted to be . . .

But that doesn't matter anymore

mystified by the moon
i wander westward
toward the crags and pines
of a rocky mountain horizon

i see her fullness flowing
her skin slowly shedding
as she freely lets go
of all that which she was given

without fear she moves
slowly descending
into her mountain grave
disappearing from my view

i witness her gentle death
fully aware of the illusion
and i rejoice in her birth
on the far side of the globe

as this goddess lights my path
my heart turns to my god
who each and every day
lends me my life’s breath

knowing that someday
i too, must let it go

You say goodbye
But you don’t really mean it
It’s just a lie
This before – I have seen it
We’re stuck in time
Destined to keep repeating
You say goodbye
But you don’t really mean it

In an ivy clad fortress
Fallen render reveals the outline of a bird.
Drawn in pink plaster,
Master of mortar.
Trapped in the brick.
Safe though from this gale that stirs us up today.
It sits looking East
Towards the sea.

There the clatter and hum of sail bells
On Camberly Sands renders seagulls quiet
Devoid of a landing platform and
Lost for words.

Then crows
Cry collaboration.
A nation of black wings against
A clear sky.
Like solid drums unbeaten
By time and weather.