It’s high time, high tide
we push the boats out


a stone   ’   s throw away


my arm gets stronger
and everything
gets further and further

Hearing all the birds
singing so loudly over
this peace and quiet

What if the moths that crash
against the dark window pane;
wings pattering urgently pushing
trying to break through the glass,
are the dead souls in the tunnel
flying towards the light
of the supposed paradise
but they can’t get through.

Then they fly about outside
like dusty ghosts of the night.

Moving the T.V set
so we can get a clearer view
of the lightning storm

The dead tree never stands lonely.
At the top the silhouettes
of birds come and go,
nesting in the nooks.

Branches sticking out like
Indecisive fingers, pointing enigmatic directions.
It’s trunk is covered with thick, green ivy
asserting a kind of dignity, uniform.

Keeping it warm in the harsh winters
and concealing the weathered, bare bark in the summer
while everything else expands outwards;
in colour, full bloom.

The dead tree stands in the middle of it all.
For the moment, standing steady,
I would never describe this dead tree as lifeless.

But all the ideas have turned stagnant
In the little idea lake in my mind

And the little idea fishermen are all sitting there, waiting and waiting
and waiting, for a little idea fish to come along

But the idea lake is stagnant,
and stinky, and rotten.

And there's a little legend going around
About a monster that lurks near the idea lake

Who eats the little idea fishermen if they stay
For too long, so..

They don't stay for long.
So they never catch any idea fish.

So, that's why I couldn't write a little something.
But I thought I'd write a little nothing instead.

I carry Aberystwyth
in the threads of my coat,
in the scuffs on my boots;
the sea salt, sand swept
into the fibres.

And now I stand here
in Jardin du Luxembourg,
thinking about the bench
by the well,

I sat on looking out to sea,
watching the starlings dance,
while considering the possibility
of perhaps, one-day, maybe
living in Paris.