Colours of a lover

These days are short,
a chill descends around my neck
the sky is pigeon blue at the waking hour
when surfacing from tousled sleep
I live my poignant dreams of you.

We’re kissing in a violet haze
warmed by an inner summer sun
that fires this furnace blaze,
too white to touch too red to hold
the white and the red couple in my bed
melt to the alchemist’s molten gold .

The sky is pigeon blue,
it’s been a solar year
since you left me here
while leonine you stalked your prey
uncharted regions you possess
with the powerful eye of passionate lens,

I haven’t lived a single day
without wanting to be that elusive prey,
to concentrate your eye on the strong white lines
of a yielding thigh travel the contours of my face
with all the intensity you waste
on inanimate sand.

The chill invades my skin
blood red berries mark the arc
of ascending winter;this sky is paper thin
punctuated by sluggish snow,
I am pigeon blue
removed from such fascination ;

but my bed still holds
your heat of old
the white with the red
the molten gold,
flowing through my dreams
in anticipation .


Other’s voices lose touch,
other’s touch can never say
as much as the silence
that we hold.

Peripheral universe unfolds
the moon lies down to eclipse’s
blanket, and the down of you
sprouts, half animal, half mystic.

We meet where we may, though
continents divide and other’s lives
jostle for attention, no one squares
the circle of this.

I hold you in my mind
a crucible of fire, boy -man
holding back the torrents.

A union unsung we’ve backed
in corners long enough
searching full thronged streets
for some way out.

Other’s voices lose touch
other’s touch can never say
as much as the silence
that we hold.

Now we are come to this:

spun of spirit raised by dreams
a hunger for the ultimate;
turn again retrieve the apple
from that long dead tree,

when I was Eve.

Creation song

Portraits of my face
everywhere I look a mirror
of who I seem to be:

Cauldrons bubble with children’s blood
born from holy tissue: cells twist, heart beats,
creation of a mystery made so casually.

I meet you at the corner of the street
we turn and talk, eyes light
something unimaginable caught between.

Creation hovers in quiet rivers
breathes in the beat of thrushes song
lingers in the scent of roses.


Early morning dreamscape
flying over sea spray
watching ghostly shapes
white sea lions gliding from the foam
adrift inside a cliff face
windows open to wild birds bathing
in cold grey light.
I can smell you, soap, musk,
mingled sleep breath:
outside the language of love
we are adrift in our own desires.
So much rain in shrouds
tight on your skin
hitting roofs, stinging faces,
a sting in your tail
I rearrange the evidence.

An end

Anger is a fire filament
a flame that slashes through
the pain of injustice.

My anger is a rod that keeps me straight,
upright in distress, it’s the scratches on the walls
from broken nails, the marks I’ve left.

Your vengeance is a cage
where you lure the dispossessed
with promises of strength.

It’s all right to hold the edges
smooth around the night
when you took me home forever.

Now we relate every Sunday,
only occasionally slipping into the slipstream
swimming in our current of secret abuse.

I try others on for size
and you wear your girlfriend
like a gabardine raincoat

buttoned tight against living.

Autumn tracks

Crossing from Battersea
wind dogs the river
low tide puddle of autumn:
leaves clog embankment
plane trees stretch naked
for conker sky, stitched moss
coats forgotten meetings.


Train ride jets glide
under daylight moon.
Feet ache from street traffic
moshing tourists avoid stranger’s eye,
yesterday in our footsteps
always turning for dead smiles
only the ghosts stride easy
whispering their ‘’forever’’ song.




I pass stations in time,
like stations of the cross
each one demands
lighted candle,
whispered prayer.
Time is always now:
flickers of thought ripple
disturb an iced lake.
It’s too late to cry
I’ve created my own
pocket universe
that expands nightly.

”Out of Context”



Daylight short
like broken finger nails
body crunched
in time frames:
repeating repetition
Children bounce
like bubbles
universe of attention
at railway stations
in coffee bars .
Moment stretches
between fingertips
crossing junctions
passion exchanged
from glance
to transmission.
Daylight hovers
on interface
entering body’s
we are holding
out our hands for