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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

The worst are the ones who don't realise they're being hurtful.
The ones who can't grasp anothers grumble.
The ones who can't hear the views of those around them.
The ones that don't drop it when you caution them.
The ones that can't see what's in front of them.
The ones that can't see past their own opinions.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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?

Weather-beaten
crippled by season after season
cast iron hearts are tough yet brittle prone to shattering and erosion
by lover after lover