night visions / awaken


The Meeting


The Meeting

The magpie has stolen my love from me,
now rain falls like commas down by the farm
near the nest of bones in a hollow tree.

I stayed in our town when they chose to flee
and rewrote the map of lines on my palm.
The magpie has stolen my love from me.

Long since did he break the burial decree,
the open grave was cause for alarm,
near the nest of bones in a hollow tree.

He hangs high above, screams like a banshee
with dark pensive eyes I cannot disarm,
the magpie has stolen my love from me.

I ran to the church, bearing lock and key,
in vain, to escape from his further harm,
near the nest of bones in a hollow tree.

One day he may cast my skeleton free,
until then, the murder gathers with calm.
The magpie has stolen my love from me
near the nest of bones in a hollow tree.




In the cutlery drawer
live a knife and a fork,
though they live right next door
there’s no time for small talk.

Knife loved the curve
of Fork’s triple prongs;
she adored to observe
his sharp slicing along.

The utensils were glum,
star crossed in love,
both under the thumb
of a marigold glove.

A chance meet on a plate
was tiresome and tough,
in the dishwasher rack
they decided, ‘Enough!

If that old dish made off
with a spoon, so could we!’
So they sold their small lot
to retire in Swansea.

At Shore


At Shore

Little eye, blinking on a beach
at clouds that float like sails,
certain her seaman will come home soon.

A seagull circles the lone lighthouse,
fretful, she can’t bat it away
planted like a barber pole.

In his absence she darns jumpers
humming scraps of shanty songs,
pipe smoke lingers in woollen threads.

Staring through one wide window
patiently, at birds speckling the
melding sea and sky.

Brewing a further cup of tea
listening to the radio forecast crackling,
dreamy soulvoice sings Stormy Weather

as she goes to brush her teeth
then stays awake to hear
the bath tap’s dripping leak.

She dreams rumours,
isles of sweet air filled
with sumptuous siren song

unfurling echoed notes
over soft waves that open and swell
to glide between glinting thighs

as the vessel plunges into jagged rocks
sails taut, the mast’s erect,
creamy foam skims around broken bows.

Thrust awake with cold wind
her arms outstretched to an empty bedside,
lifting fog of certainty washed out to sea.

Little eye, single tear
reading a damp telegram
on the barren island.

A lonely stick of rock not sucked
towering over rocks below,
the oysters feel rain at her toes.

Why must you cry, lighthouse lady?
if you don’t shine the men will die.
She turns away from seagull cries,

her lens blurs into inky night.
Waves crash against the tower
as she shuts off the lighthouse eye.



A bright morning breaks
near the Cave of Souls.
Stone golems awake,
damp air fills with moans.
They slouch hard, slow and out
to the mouth of their cave,
where tall rods stand devout
beside fresh virgins’ graves.
At the peak of these poles
Hangs a series of hooks.
They equip for the stroll
to the bridge, near the brook.
Roaming rocks, river clan
move as one,but are they ten?
Ore of a forgone plan,
twice the size of fleshed out men.
Stalking ’til they reach the bridge
they ply their hooks with coins and fruit,
casting them atop the ridge,
to pluck a bite they fish, all mute.
High noon smiles, hanging sun
snags upon the water.
To its balm pale waifs run,
the lake’s whispy daughters.
They frolic all, into the brook,
their honeyed muscles lax and lean,
between the lines and passed the hooks.
The golems ponder their cuisine.
Light twinkled coins, like eyes, smile luck.
Clear ripples cease, a new desire:
plump ripened fruit begs to be plucked,
swift hands outstretch toward the wires.
With gorging mouths they suck rich juice
and grab at gold. The hooks all grin.
A wail rings out, they can’t pull loose,
ensnared by silver piercing skin.
Red plumes pour from breast, thigh and flank.
Soft weeping slows, their frames deflate.
Souls flown like birds, their faces blank,
reeled up on to the golem’s plates.
Cool sunset falls. The evening wind
rips through toothed rocks of the ravine,
chills slabs of meat, not long skinned,
within the roaring fire, they gleam.
The golems pick their feast with spears,
salivating, they lick and chew
warm flesh like large misshapen ears,
nothing spared; cracked ribs tossed to stew.
Now gorged, they hunch back through the mire,
a feeding ritual ends, replete.
Deep in the cave, to sleep, retire,
until they rise once more to eat.



A pocket full of godless eyes
guard the town’s withered luck.
Sharp angled cliffs graze rumbling skies,
the rain has not yet struck.
In my palm globes wince and glitter,
children twist; their limbs charmed.
Crops are dead. The people bitter,
mourning sepulchre farms.

My inky sea yields tarot cards,
soft bones of those long dead.
Upon this hill, my hut stands guard,
no villagers dare tread.
This wizened hand will cast their lots
to choose who wins or falls.
In fear, they say my mind’s in knots,
but I have won them all.


To be featured in Party In Your Eyesocket Issue 2;

9 ‘Till 5

9 ‘Till 5

Morning chimes, stopped clock.
Taxi cab, doors lock
grumbling through grey blocks
crisp news, corner shop,
headlines swim, quick hop
going up, building top,
meeting yawns


Once one groan, they can’t stop
drowning in their coffee cups,
striped suits crease and flop,
shuffle in the lift to drop
as day descends, clocking off.

Lay asleep then wonder,
why briefcases plunder
through traffic jams non stop,
metropolis, rooftops,
looking down, corporate sigh,
turn away avoid The Eye
up above seas of grey

9 A.M. another day.