In my shining spotlight the rabbit scampers
Across the fields, its bright white eyes, and stops
Crouching in the dewy grass of a foggy night
In the pale-faced cold wind of winter

In the light of the supermoon
In the light rain fog of November
And what is fog?
In the darkness
Something that I remember

The glowing leaves pile up in my pockets
Yellow ones burn like lemon flames, green like pears
They all find their way someday between the pages
Of my stained petal books

And I always find my way
Into the Moon's light,
Where blue sea laps softly on smooth stones
Of the shore
Of the skin
And the silence
Of the night

Unlucky the hero born
In this province of the stuck record
Where the most watchful cooks go jobless
And the mayor's rôtisserie turns
Round of its own accord.

There's no career in the venture
Of riding against the lizard,
Himself withered these latter-days
To leaf-size from lack of action:
History's beaten the hazard.

The last crone got burnt up
More than eight decades back
With the love-hot herb, the talking cat,
But the children are better for it,
The cow milks cream an inch thick.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be.*" - Wuthering Heights.

beauty, is in love's eyes,
i once read that if he still makes your heart
anchor itself to your abdomen,
after three months, it's love.

well, my metaphors are wasted on you,
my words are a fancy way of
expressing myself and they contain
too much of you.

you've got a temper,
enough to rumble under these streets,
and collapse what i've been building.

i get sick of building blocks,
love is child's play, and i just want
us to be adults.

i promised to love you, and i do in
my own odd ways,
you broke my heart, i broke yours.
i still want you to know,
a mosaic wouldn't be so beautiful,
without all the cracks.

It makes me go "Jesus Christ. Look at the view"
Middle of October, birthday,
Driving past Bantry bay
Treading boots on a carpet of brown
Leaves, the forest walk in Glengariff

I walk and wonder
Why the ivy leaves sprout from the mud  
Scattering green shapes on the ground
Spread across the floor like mushrooms

I see the thin branches hold a preschool painting
A trillion burning instances of colour
And nothing is human here, but you
I am only the moss that clings to the trees

Like a pointilist masterpiece
The apple-green and autumn yellow spots
Gather in canopies above the rocks
While the white streaks and dots
Dance wildly in the black stream

And so
The orangeness, as I turn, flies diagonally,
Looking down across the dampened stones
The colour of fire paints the falling petals
That flip like red feathers

As the stream flows clear as molten glass
And the foam, so dove white on the surface
Bubbles against the edge of it
Splashing boulders,
Rinsing toes