Diminishing lights
curving gradually
blinking until lost
in the depths of night.
Distant the fading airplane hum carrying on
once gone
from sight.
Suffer not wondering
of its destination,
the possibility of passengers,
the needful yearn to be one.
Some wished to stay behind,
to sit as you do
and remain on a patch of soil.
Imagine another wanting your life.
Bemused?
You should wonder why.

Almost content
Not fully there yet
But an improvement nonetheless.
Yes?
I'll take that
as time well spent,
well as time not wasted
a recovery of sorts
Almost brave enough to gather thoughts,
Almost.
Almost considering making plans.
Yes,
Plans come before hope but after dreams. And I'm not ready to consider anything as bountiful as those.
But it'll take more time. More healing and permitting myself an occasional forgiveness.
Maybe just one.
Meant to help lighten the load so I've been told

When wings of time
sweep you away
things return
to being just things
Nothing to cherish
nothing significant
Nothing worth noting
A night without stars
a sun without radiant warmth.
A wine stain is a blemish
A cold pillow takes up space
A clock tics slowly.
Things are only things
nothing more
You gave them essence

On the wall opposite
a gallery of posters and pamphlet raising awareness, and warnings
of conditions
he prays she doesn't have.
High glossed brochures they hope not to collect afterwards
The weight of the waiting
as crushing as the worries
they try to play off
in light conversation
pretending it's nothing.
Urging each open door and passing uniform to be the calling.
Eyes burning through the back of those who came after,
but are seen before them.
The unfairness of it draws the focus of their anxiousness in mutter curses.
Recalling the sayings
"its a rare person who wants to hear what they don't want to hear."
it depends on why and how long you're waiting.
They sit there trying to stay calm, distracted
and stare at the floor,
focusing on the ripped edge of a poster as many before have and many will again

Within the woods
a cluster of silver birch
stand proud among the pines and hazel and elms.
Below the gaze of the silver bark eyes
half hidden beneath the mulch and loam of ground
a toppled circle of stone can be found
to a kean eye
faded traces of blackened soil
painted by the death of a flame
It holds memories, if you listen,
of promises and dreams intimately whispered about the fire
when everything and the world died except you and I.

Still the night
muffled by a dark velvet sky
so animals may slumber
while others take silent flight.
An aphotic world
kept in secret from sight
shared only among hushes
in the envelope of a sigh.

I'll have to iron them I said for the fifth day in a row
eyeing the pile as it grows
stacked on a chair buried somewhere there under the creases and crumbled clothes
Er, I'll do it tomorrow,
maybe,
who knows?

Guzzling Joe
black 'n strong 'n unsweetened as it ought to be
to kick a little something into you
and a drag of a smoke in a quiet place while there's still some morning silent grace like an embrace awake
under a pastel smudged dawn
as dew clings on to another moment forlorn in its dissipation
it gets you ready for the slow deliberate walk into another day

Words set sail from the bay of her mouth
Traveling distance on waves meant for somewhere else
but they crashed upon his shore
and cast him away
She was oblivious to this.
later in a quiet cove
far from others
her concern asked of his silence.
How could he tell her he caught sight of her course?
A lie.
I'm fine,
had too much wine and such.
They drifted apart soon after.
That was years ago

Bah humbug it's Christmas
Time to panic and purchase extra ****
Time for adverts to hype kids to pester parents to scavenge shelves. Time for painful smiles to be painted and pretend all is well as kin folk gather.
Worry about bedding, and seating and gravy boats and tangled lights and sellotape and hiding spaces they want to sink into.
Time for the lonely to feel isolated and the happy to be oblivious.
Time for excess and ** ** **. Christmas songs relentless grinding through bones while millions go without.
Time for charity boxes to rattle because governments ignore.
Time for hangovers and walks of shame.
Devouring more than is needed. Consumed by the season's abused meaning.
Then once done and discarded we have January, Billuary ready to ****** up the spoils.
And the New Year foolishness of resolutions, and lose weight, get back in shape, sales and sales and holiday dreams until the old valentines rolls in, then Paddy's day and Easter, then pressure for the perfect beach ***. It goes on chipping away and chipping and chipping.

The cold gnawed through bones this morning
If there were clouds I'm sure ice blocks would have fallen
crushing cars, destroying roofs and squishing squashy humans.
But the sky was a crystal blue perfect.
I thought it said "hello"
and "how are you"
"shivery but fine", my reply
Then a glint of sunshine gave me a smile.

There's leaves waiting to be gathered pooled by the trunk
while others remain restless on limbs seeking one strong gale to unite with the fallen and have done with the inevitable.
The rake is eager to prove its worth peeking out from the shed.
I'm in no rush while enjoying the lush crimson and amber and brown watching as one by one they topple down.

Squandered an hour or so
chasing an echo's
last rebound
off mountain slopes
until the final "hello"
fell unanswered as it petered out tapering to a point of silence.

A squandered hour or so
making sure I was all alone
Sometimes and some places
are better being by oneself
like when you need a primal scream to rip open
unwitnessed,
unseen
for some the burden of despair
is too personal to be shared,
and no, talking doesn't always help.

I heard geese late last night
off in the distance beyond the reservoir
as I sat in my decrepit shed
where I view the world and all its lineaments.

I envisioned their v trail in a silhouette against a salmon dawn
An arrow soaring to exotic lands somewhere far, far south
though the hour of morn was hours away.

Then later when my pillow welcomed me to rest beside the sleeping warmth of my love
I thought of them and their journey hoping i would travel with them in my dreams,
but I did not

If I could
I'd take your smile
put it away until times weren't kind
I'd add it to the wink you left behind
That would carry me through most anything.

If I could
I'd preserve your kiss
Keep it safe until times of loneliness
Reminds me distance keeps you from me
I'd open the lid and let the touch
Carry me to you

A mandolin hangs on the wall
sunburst and walnut hinting through dust
unstrung to prevent warping
unstrummed for so long without song.

A temporary perch at first
then time stole its heart lonely without touch
now she gives it the slightest look, dispelling texture and notes
once ment so much.

Though her fingers flicker memories twitch of warm body beneath fretted strings and the race of such
along a neck smooth enough to kiss.

What caused the separation,
the disengagement,
the lack of intimacy?
A musician's instrument
tender as a lover.
Did they fall out of love with one another,
and if so
why hang the reminder above an evening's flaming hearth?

Butterscotch bruises are those water stains on a white ceiling.
Fighting the bleach at every dab and swab.
Days pass since the cause was fixed, but still they mar and taunt.
A few more days, then try again, then paint over regardless.  
Another of life's little irritants,
little annoyances grinding away.
Then there's the ants, don't get me started,
the temperamental heater, the obnoxious neighbour, the bills, the muscle spasm that never fully goes, the arguments, the hang nail, the rudeness of strangers, the frozen screen, the word slip, the stupid what's app messages,
the struggle to write a verse.
The list goes on and on and will long after we're gone.

Dew beads on web tendrils
too soft to stir the spider
too unobtrusive to cause grass tips bother
Early dew
soft and silent
like tears hidden from a sleeping lover.
An exhale of morning's breath
in condensation
its swell captured
Droplets form
in the midst of dawn's sorrow
for the departed night

She wears a ring on a chain
around her neck,
never hides it away
or acknowledges it.
A plain silver ring
aged and smoothed by time
though the chains have changed
once in a while.
Sometimes when she reads
or when deep thoughts distract
her fingertips gently caress.
It's her's, this ring she does posses
and of it's secret
I'll often wonder,
but always respect.
In all of these years
I've never asked.
I think a part of her
is grateful for that

Passing by those
owners of sad lost eyes
like Rubin's faceless
slumping on kerb ridges 
body bridges
between pavements and
shuttered shop cages
where the cast of a streetlamp gets swallowed up
by dime bag shadows,
30 to 1 outsiders
and washed up wannabe beatniks
too wild for Kerouac pages.
I'm sure there's a beauty somewhere there
below the crust of the surface
late in the a.m. between
stiletto heels clip and echo
and the strike and flare
of cigaretted fingers
if I only dared
to thread and seek out
where a different twist of choice nearly led.

Petals wilt
wither desert dry
stem stalks snap and topple
crumble to dust
they lie.
But do not decay.
When graveside flowers die
their essence transcend
to heavens high
a bounty floral bouquet
with love
for those who past away.

The tree's now fleshed out
with leaves
shushing the wind's passion,
                                      'be with me'
moaning sighs to its lover
sway and stretch of torso and limbs
heart pulses
vibrating root deep
                                         'always'

Cat spat out a baby bird
deader than a drunk's promised word
broken from the maw
only a little blood, no more.  
Could've cried a little
as I scooped it up from the door
into a dandoline dust pan
before the kids saw.
The cat did what cats do
I wasn't angry with it as it pawed
my ankle expectantly seeking a reward

Birds call
cascades from distant brough
to those foraging grasses high and
between bramble flowers
where insects' hide,
knowing well the thorns to avoid
long before berries bulge and ripe.
Gather they fresh thistledown
for nest's reline
then silence fledglings' shrill
with
bugs and grubs
and stale breadcrumbs
Treasures from a garden of mine.

To see you cast down those eyes

pennies sinking in a well

searching for hope's desired wish
or forlorn in regret

as they fell.

Tumbled down rubble
pushed then mounted
into the truck's buckets,
driven through sodden mud
and away from centuries of familiar standing,
do memories join your journey,
shadows of past existence and echoes of sweat,
of worry?
The bones of a building
shell shallow and crusted
without soul.

Like snowflakes
the lace
mesh of net
curtain drapes
the window
that admitted your entrance.
You and the wind
to fan flames of a smokey fire,
giving tongues to the chimney troath.
There you now sit
between
gossamer and pane
wondering how it's shut
against elements raw
puzzling the porthole with paw
through which you wish to explore
to chase whisked leaves
and shadows fleet.
The window opens no more.

Never known an oak to grumble about politics
or a cloud question its faith
never known a worm worried about its looks
or a hedgehog do an early morning walk of shame
never known a pebble craving attention
or a flower seeking revenge
never known a puddle to scream in anger
or a star seeking another to blame

The memory came as sure as night’s silence
between the hours
when sane people sleep
and the flush of dawn was yet to be considered.
Fleeting memory on the peripherals
the distinctive recall like a snuffed candle’s scent when no candle can be seen.
For what purpose does it still serve?
The sharp ache of it has long since faded
to a dull throb,
and then only when you try to clutch it
and face it.
scrutinize it once again.  
The memory mellows with a faint aftertaste of oak aged whiskey from a tumbler long dry in the depths of advancing echoes
from its footsteps
from its footsteps
from its footsteps

Cast her head back
she's got a neck for kissing
through nicotine fog and neon high
when the drinks are flowing.
can spend a time there
enjoying and forgetting.
Just a spot needing scratching.
It's lacking affection
lost to notions of devotion.

Stepping sober in the land of the living when the tinsel of a night has settled
the taxi off loads you
to a chilly morning kerb.
There awaits a hollow echo of the hallway
when the door latch slots home.
cool bed catches your fall.
No arms, nobody, no 'good mornings' with a kiss
nobody missed

The turn of summer's end
already caused  ailing leaf's stems
to tremble and quiver
one last hand, one last trailing touch before a final
release on high wind,
the leaves descend
transcend in their death
back to the earth which gave birth
a bittersweet rejoice
as colours and ribs fade to dust
and return to soil
to feed the tree nutrients for life.

The brittle voice of your footsteps on grass
under heavy winds drag
would have went amiss,
but I listened for this
as assurance
our pace still kept in step
crossing the blanket of green
between the trail
of one conversation's lull
and the delicate start
of the next.

What do we do when the shadow's pressing against our hope
or dragon tails whip our thoughts into a frenzy
when we struggle to walk a straight line
on paths that twist and contort?
How do we ignore the vices and voices
that mock and entice us
or lights that would blind us
from the sight of the righteous?
How do we utter our words to a lover
when doubt trips us to stutter
knowing we should speak better
but the truth is smothered to a mutter
like a snuffed candle's last splutter
or spittle from a kiss interrupted?

As kids we'd play
beneath a summer sun
that turned
the pitch
between slabs of laid concrete
on minor suburban roads
into soft globs
malleable enough
to scoop out and
use as makeshift glue
to adhere icepop sticks
end to end
in triangles and squares.
These we'd toss to one another
in absence of Frisby or paint *** lids.
There were less cars those days
and none complained
to a bedraggled clump of kids
***** ***** but up to innocent clean mischievous play.
Digging up parts of the road we'd all eventually leave by.

Wander my thoughts to a mountain stream
so crisp and pure its whisperings
are prayers
and dappled flecks of light
glisten the ripples to glinting eyes
blinking bright.
gazing down
my wandering
floats me upon a travelling
leaf fleeing its tree
to experience life at sea
and I with my bond of fantasy
steer the vessel through tributaries union and confluence widening
into river's run
traversing bends and rapid rush
then lull before the gaping swell
of oceans welcoming gulp.
and swallowed
my wandering cast me free
while the leaf continues out to sea
on wave and surf's gallop
to return to watery core
where mermaids dream of dry land's shore.
There the Queen of them all
found a treasure so pure
a small leaf forever in a her crown she wore.

Her side of the bed's
warm as a hug
she just left for work
closing the door like a book
I'll later pick up
and lose myself in
in the pages of her return.
For our lives are written
one little word at a time,
line by line,
chapter after chapter.