The autumn harvest
rowan thorn elder and yew
winter food for birds

It’s not all hearts and pretty flowers
you know,
sometimes the words won’t ****** well run
the synapses blink and stop
and the lines flow like maple syrup
cold from the fridge

Best then to wait and see
If harmony happens
and words flow again
in the right and only way;
if not stop and abandon
and save your thoughts for tomorrow

The autumn harvest
berries of rowan thorn elder and yew
winter food for the birds

my pet dog emma
a schnauzer from end to end
her barks shatter glass

whipped by the wind
the waves wash ashore
tidying the beach and
making smooth the sand
so that lovers
drawing hearts with sticks,
can make public their desire
for one tide at lest

Huginn and Muninn
fulfilling the augury
fly North at nightfall

Death gathers us up
In manageable packets
we know our sell-by dates
are strictly enforced and
unknown to each other
we line up to go
to that final place.

Now?? we ask.

We fervently avow
Our belief in god
hoping for a last minute reprieve.
when do we go?
how do we get there?
Is there a real difference
between destinations?
As dead do we have rights?
is it a democracy?
is it really a one way ticket?
can I be on standby?
what if I don’t like it?
can I come back
and have another go?


As yet I have
no answers to your questions.
I will keep you posted.