The breeze that ripples
through the clematis vine;

shakes the aphid cloak
glutting on its purple pendants.

chestnut mushrooms
seasoned by springs sweet rainfall
chatter on tongues

Lime –
virid
plum-shaped gem;
citrus drizzle
flows.

Stare
at the
universe;
backlit pinpricks
on card. Cosmic children in playful ruse.

Serpentine prism;
flamboyant illusory arc
blown by daylight's kiss.

Fool's errand
pursued by youthful breeze.

Naked but for
snow laden branches,

the silver birches
shimmer, lit by hopping lanterns;

comet tails flash
amongst skeletal frames.

Winter beckons,
as humanity laminates the Earth,

shamefaced, we
falter and play in the snow.

Lemon grove -
celestial pendants;
awaiting gravity's pluck.

Gossamer-winged
illusion winking at the
periphery of thought and vision.

Hinterland elfin mischief maker
sparkling in ethereal glitter;
dancing through the realm of eternal dawn.

Cherries –
bound by blood knot.

Molten passion –
plump, ripe, moist, alluring.

Bolted stems –
anchored in the deepest flesh.

To wrench apart –
would shatter the world.

The surf rolls and
ripples like a centipede’s
cascading legs.

Emotional hubs are kicked
and dredged through
the Atlantic’s merciless brine.

Delivered, near drowned;
damaged minds lie as
detritus on a stony beach.

Thoughts are brittle
shells pulverised
into grains of sand.

Fragments of consciousness
castaway, where Loneliness
is a private beach.

Nascent budding rose –
Crimson swirl of gravid depth;
Blooms in ****** pall.

Solar flush of youth –
Petals parched as sandy dunes;
Crumbling into dust.

Shivering in the
corners of shadows;

clammy skin writhes, alive with
the gritty shuffle of feasting beasts.

Razorwire slices; evisceration,
collapsed innards, black bowel splatter.

Swathed in laughing black
clobber, mouth pinched in sneering folds,

the spinning turnip
crashes, reduced to trampled mush.

Once majestic,
the tattered
linen of your
sails sag.

The ripple of
the river is
your poem;

a swirling eddy
the final stanza.

The wardrobe

stands

empty,


panels of pine

no longer

brushed by the fabric of you.


The doors close,

sealed by a magnets kiss -

a mannequin's tomb.

Under the venerable
boughs of the Emancipation Oak,

leaves fell at liberty
into the laps of Afro-Americans.

Lincoln’s proclaimation
sowed acorns amongst dissent;

now mighty oaks grow,
conquering bitter winters.

Footfall sang like
glockenspiel chimes,
a metallophone
path of linear strides.
Back and forth, to and fro
jiving in and out of time.

Empty,

your armchair sits in
the corner of the room

and I wonder how the
enormity of you ever fitted there.

In days of shadow, the frayed
fabric forms your silhouette;

the imprint of a
man I cannot be.

My memories of you
are like every season’s rain,

a permanent lens of grief.

How could I ever fill
the empty space you left?

The empty spaces
that are everywhere.