The sun goes to sleep and says goodnight

The moon rises high and shines so bright

Creatures awake from their sleep

From hiding places safe and deep

Cool breezes blow, rustling leaves

Voices of the night interweave

Remain in the shadows, so no one can see

Freedom to roam and be free

Crickets chirping,coyotes howl

Night time predators on the prowl

Voices of the night that want to be heard

Sitting in the dark, not understanding a word

Breaking twigs and crunching leaves

Sounds you can't believe

Voices of the night

Start where you are. Hike your own journey, being careful
of rocks in the road. Use your inside voice. Remember
everyone has a story needing to be heard. Look for the tall
people in ALDI - they can reach the string cheese on the top shelf.
A repeated mistake is a decision. Every day, breathe outside air.
Read: street signs, back-of-the-box instructions, your housemates'
faces. If you can't be kind, be quiet.

Tonight I taste your cancer,
my memory of your agony so real
and tangible

that I try hard to get rid of it -
mints, toothpaste, mouthwash, soap.

Tonight I hear your cancer too -
the brutality of your words was the vehicle
that tried to burn our bridges.

If I could do just one thing tonight,
I would reach out and hold your freezing hand,
one more time.

it must be tiring
with all the heat
of summer

it was cool here yesterday
down the estuary

and rain came about 7.30

refreshing while walking

no use when your job is baling
when the baler is jammed

so we had a break in the back garden
six feet apart and talked about policemen

remembering earlier times

later a friend rang and said it was good
to hear a different perspective on things

i also was interested to hear a different

perspective on things

we come lately
we come with more
promise

with bird song
this morning

so why the darkness
some days

is that natural?

there is a clear pool up by the mountain
where recently visitors have left litter

dark clouds gathering

to talk of dead folk

i was quietly drawing
at the old table and as

one can, I felt someone

behind me on the work
shelf

i turned
as it skittered away
with its prize to chew

outside

the last of my dead
mummifieds is gone

eaten as before

i am drawing some odd

stuff these days. meanwhile

my mobile still makes capitals
so I changes that

the breeze comes through the
window

while down by the hedge I get
bitten

You might be surprised by what people read
at the kitchen table
in the evening
with dinner to the side

As for where to die?  
At the kitchen table
like my neighbor Betty—

slumped over her newspaper
arms above her white and lonely head.