Our Summer – 28/2/17

We have had our summer, untarnished, bold and bright,

We had our turn to dance, in rain and flooding light,

Come! Back to our caves now!

Before the world turns sour,

Lift your face to the dying sun, run! Escape the nearing night.



Thanks for the great prompt from dVerse to capture an emotion without naming it in our poem! I’m not sure I did it justice, but I really love this prompt 😊

Last poem: It’s Not Spring Here – 26/2/18


Reassessing – 21/2/18

Because Wordsworth was lonely,
He gave flowers faces; made them dance.
Imagined a dancing sea,
And found joy in the plants.
A poet, a lonely poet, he made himself smile,
Found a cheerful memory to put in his joy-pile


I have no daffodils, no waves,
Instead twelve sunflowers mine,
Each in reddened sunlight bathes,
Each of their faces shine.
I find my heart grinning along with them,
As each golden head dances on its stem.



Darkness is the absence of light – 31/12/17

Laying in the litter of black bark,

The dark is strewn with our shadows

We carpet the ground beneath the trees

And we cannot see our feet

But even in this layer of geological light

Or non-light, absence of light, everything-but-light cake layer,

There is a small stirring; something is awake,

On the tops of the shapeless shadows,

Suddenly less black, more brown, almost green,

The crickets are singing imperceptibly in some far off place, as high as the soft laughing tree heads, curly tops,

And down here, where we are as low as you can get without digging a hole,

We can smell the promise of dawn coming in an hour or a minute or a day,

Light comes so softly you cannot hear it breathing, till,

Till… and here it is.




Wakefulness – 15/11/17

Why am I still up? It’s the moon, the moon, it’s much too bight.
It’s the silence, it’s my heart,
all the thumping, footsteps, running.
Why am I still awake?
It’s the lumps in my bed,
It’s the sea, it’s the sea, it’s much to dark,
and it’s crashing in on itself, and I’m afraid, I’m scared that it will
disappear, disintegrate in every smash of every pulse.
The walls are much too smooth, my bed is much too safe. Why am I still up?
Because my coffee cup is empty, and I smashed it into shards
and they’re turning into powder, and so, what if when I pour my cup next
I mistake the pottery sand for coffee beans and make my tea with that instead?
I’ll wind up dead!
And if there are tangents, are they staying up late at night, sitting with steaming cups, plotting over benches like so many sharp toothed worms, grinning at my discomforture when I find I cannot sea them,
are they underground?
And was that last typo an intentional working of my brain
as a deep illusion to the ocean or, not?
My head aches, that is why I cannot sleep.
And why am I still up? Well would you put me down?
What would you call this sweet insomnia if it was late for tea?
And if I was running with it, would you wait?