Saturday, 26 November 2016

Heart Lines

Ink, not exactly
black, not really blue
a mixture then
of ink and nib
dusk and dawn
or the shades 
of a winter afternoon

the nib, silver metal shell
dips in the ink
the black and the blue
the paper, the parchment
the grain in the paper
the neat impress -
letter connects to letter
the fingers hold the pen
the paper clean as snow,

smudges on the fingers
smudges of dusk
smudges of dawn

the thoughts transmit
through muscle, blood, bone
the curlicues of copperplate
as the light dims
flickers, dies

the letters of black and blue
the neat impress
like footprints, crow shadows

in the snow

Sunday, 20 November 2016

The Diners

Black bush eyebrows and a gravestone wife
their conversation is like a ballast of coal -
a loaded freight that sinks
all light from the hotel dining room
a boast of conquests
and words that find no purchase
and keep on coming all the same -
the laughing policeman’s push button laugh
in the felt swag bag of their bellies
and there’s always room 
for a little more,
more cheesecake
another bowl of brandy
to swell the rotund belly
although, somehow,
everything sounds hollow,

Monday, 14 November 2016

The Moon River

Pale mist spans space between earth and sky
in the clouds, curlicues of iron, 
black leaves precision cut 
and dragons talons
as the shadows of trees
paint black outlines
on moon-white flagstones

branches and stones staunch the river
brown water with latte foam

the air bites
although the temperature
is neither 

one thing or another.

Tuesday, 8 November 2016

The Last Place You Looked


Chillies like fireflies
in tunnels of polythene
the green scent of tomatoes
still on the vines.


Hunched in the driving seat,
hard rain and seen a fraction too late
road floods like black mirrors.
Cats eyes and white lines -
so many souls still abroad
long after the witching hour.


The shop next to the Electric Palace
trades in poetry and the leonine proprietor 
treats me like a king, a royal customer -
in other words, he has all the time in the world
to hear and say more words, the stocks on his shelves -
some written by good friends of mine
still make a golden currency where all else fails.


Trees swish in a rough wind, the leaves
shake in soothing whispers 
that shape no words and still speak sense
in one long sigh that’s as old as the hills
and cradles the dreams as you fall -
not into sleep exactly, more like
a place that just is.


A blackbird in the morning. Raucous jackdaw
and the avian shapes of grey feather clouds
narrow lanes where every bend 
is a fear of a head on collision 
until a straight bit relaxes the white knuckles. 
Sheep in profusion - some of them spill into the lanes
where a fox hides in his dry rust -

now a space that was once fox.


The croak of a frog and an old man
just trying to find his way home
through the greenwood. Rain drops
from tree tops fall on broadleaves 
and a black-eye pool where the drops
always fall in the last place you looked -
a slight tremor of the green leaf
like the after-leap of an invisible frog.

Thursday, 3 November 2016


Morlock Oil

Morlock Oil
A new collection of stories available now . Click on image for details.

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
New Chapbook Available (email for details)


Bunchgrass Press

Essential guides for the journey...