I scour the cottage for signs of past presence
L ike a famished orphan at the erstwhile site
O f a long-spilled rice-sack, grubbing some essence,
V estige of sustenance. Hope gutters fitfully not quite
...
A Muse whispers
and the soul's pricked-up, hand cupped ear
strains hard to catch each syllable
wafting over memory's embers
...
The mind and heart sustain contusions
By jumping to the wrong conclusions
And intellect, perhaps, divines
Too much by reading twixt the lines
...
A line of doggerel? Poor enough in truth,
For one so rich in spirit. Yet I won
...
An arctic blizzard whispers in my ear
Twelve inches off, through a block of new-cut snow
Howling, unpenetrating. Does it know
I'm sitting warm and smiling here?
...
Falling asleep all the time - that's expected
But I see the bag's gone that cries tears
In my arm. But the fire in my chest is not resurrected
And that for days? weeks? was the sum of my fears
...
The sun has just taken a suicide dive.
A dive to gambol and gamble with a sick spring lamb
Half a world away behind a line of westering waves
Wich all day flashed blue, crested white
...
With a final burst of red across the mirrored Llyn
The sun strikes copper from the glistening organ frieze
Of Glyder Fawr and sets behind Y Garn; old yogin
Lotus posed, his little lake couched twixt his knees:
...
Under a polycarbonate cover of riot shields
...