Be the Flame Do not be the moth flocking toward destruction. Be the flame withstanding pain burning bright to fend off the darkness with your sheer light. Do not be the moth singeing your wings so you may no longer fly. Be the flame, impenetrable. Feed off the oxygen which makes you want to
The Isle of Oxney The fields are golden now on Romney Marsh and where the sky and land meet, walkers on a distant hill stop, turn as one and listen to a lapwing’s song and see the last brave flash of poppies in the new ripe field. How good to be in this fair country
FIVE SEA HAIKU shared intimacy – along a windswept beach a bigger ocean countless sea-worn stones and not one a perfect sphere eternal seascape – an old man wants to tell us how it used to be storm-warning siren – through the booming waves our whistling kettle distant waves breaking – late into the night
Vixen and there through this Japanese ghost garden this monochrome dreamscape slips a half-dreamt wraith born from the last shades of dusk she is tip tip toeing on footfall so soft it uncurls snails dizzies galaxies in dew her vagabond heart beats with the tremors of the earth balances on owl call
Take These Sounds Take these sounds – the mumble of distant conversations with its interplay and rhythm – the chirrup and chatter of bird song with its imprint of ancient tunes – a bee that flits from flower to pollen laden flower – add the drone of far off traffic, the passing plane, the
The Coma Patient The flowers died on a Monday. Though I thought their life vibrant on Sunday. They were given to me on Saturday. Though I didn’t see them till Tuesday. For I wasn’t there but here, Sleeping in the darkness. ‘Cause the flowers were given to me on Saturday, And my mother
Baħar (in Maltese) Inbill is-swaba ta’ saqajja fik u int, tbaħbaħli ħsibijieti, tlaħlaħli dmijieti. Nixxaħxaħ fik u niled il-ġwienaħ f’dahri. Mare (in Italian) Immergo le dita dei piedi in te, e tu mi sciacqui i pensieri, mi risciacqui il sangue. Mi avvolgo in te e faccio nascere ali sulla schiena.