In the white theatre of the gale,
a barn’s vermilion gates
and the woolen scarlet of kin
stand like beacons to the lost.

The air is a script of whirling ash,
yet in the hearth’s small kingdom
rosehip constellations drift
through the dark gold sea of tea —

                      omens of return,
of warmth wrested
          from the storm’s        
                               dominion.





.

The years have grown
moss over my name,
my transgression carved
into memory’s vestibule
always finding there
one chair turned away,
its back carved with
the shape of your absence.



.

Legend of a Feather’s Loop



Follow the gold path to walk the day from mist to glint —
Feather at dawn, Crow at the fence, Fox in the thistle,
Lantern where the conclave leans close, Hill in the last light,
and the Glint that waits for the hand that knows the way back.


Follow the silver path to retrace the memory —
Glint to Hill, Lantern to Fox, Crow to Feather —
until the first breath of morning closes the circle.



.

Feather drifts in the paddock mist,
catches on a fence where the crow keeps watch,
slips past thistle and shadow‑fox,
rests by the lantern in the council’s glow —
and somewhere beyond the hill,
a glint waits for the hand that knows the way back.




.

Fog writes you in,
hair a shifting font,
clothes, a quiet hearth —
the street braids itself around you.





.

Hair like weather,
clothes like a hearth —
I hold the street open
and let its poems walk past.





.

Wind:
from the south,
carrying the smell of iron.

Sky:
a hinge between
two storms.

Witness:
a gull circling
the drowned bell.



.

The Conjunction Holds
(with a verb in the wings)

Not the leap,
but the plank between banks—
its grain remembering
both shores.

Not the shout,
but the breath that lets
two voices
share one lung.

I am and,
I am but,
I am although—
the quiet ligature
that keeps the torn cloth
from drifting apart.

The verb would run,
would strike,
would bloom—
but I stay,
a hinge in the weather,
turning both ways at once.

Here,
in the seam’s small country,
I keep the quarrel and the kiss
in the same sentence,
and call it
poem.





.

éclairs — bolts
sleek barrels
brimming with custard resolve
washers —
flat wafers of caramel snap
kissed round by a cutter’s rim
slid between chew and cream
to keep the whole from
unravelling





.

“Foment in the Firmament”


There is a stirring above the stillness,
a slow‑brewed unrest
braiding itself into the blue.

Cloud‑veins thicken,
their edges bruised with light,
and the air tastes of iron and distance.

Somewhere, a wind rehearses its entrance,
curling through the rafters of the sky,
its breath warm with the scent of rain not yet born.

Birds wheel lower,
their wings cutting arcs in the charged flush,
as if tracing the script of what is coming.

The sun, half‑veiled,
becomes a coin passed from palm to palm
in a game no one admits to playing.

And I stand beneath it all,
feeling the pulse of that high conspiracy —
the foment in the firmament —
gathering its syllables,
ready to speak in thunder.




.