Posts Tagged ‘senses’


Do you know
What you are
When you are asleep?

Winter trees –
It is easy to see
What they are thinking.

A filigree of branches
The grey oaks
Wriggle their limbs
Between the long centuries.

Today I remembered
A dream of water
Perhaps from ten years ago.

And saying this
More some such arise,
Memories like dead poets:
Complete images in total silence.

It is easier to see the illusion
Of television
If the sound is turned down.
As if one entranced sense
Is not quite enough.

Awake whilst others sleep,
Somewhat like becoming a ghost,
I suspect –
Thoughts coming
In a different order,
And voices
From unexpected places.

What roads do thoughts take
When they have
Passed through
And left us wondering?

The fire is singing
Like an old man
Making tea,
Whistling a tune
Between his teeth.

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Walking further than intended
A river breeze in the tree tops
And below, streams of birdsong.

The grasses are shooting green
But still in forest shade
The violets in full bloom.

A running stream
A cowslip sky.
At the forest’s edge,
The scent of green.

Deep in the woods
Violets bloom where no-one sees.
Perfected in themselves,
Complete within silence.

Allowed to breathe here
By the forest’s edge
This cowlip sky
A river wind in the treetops.


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It is the very egg of long nights:
Still and black, a light rain falling.

The cats peer silent from windows,
The long fire slowly fades and whispers.

In the garden there will be slugs,
Stately, weaving their own fine galactic trails.

Beyond, in the meadows, glimmering sheep
Will nonchalantly chew, nod and say grace,
Nod and say grace.

There will be owls and a scurry of mice.
And there will be dreams sliding
Between the in and the out of breath,
A tower of worlds, made and unmade,
A cascade of tomorrows in dark and light.

For most, (but never for all),
There will be a slow dawn.
A new wind from the hills,
A resumption: nets and hooks set
Eager to catch time, labelled, minuted,
Used, misused, wasted.

But not now,
Not now.
Not in this one vessel of darkness:
One long curve holding curved void.

Not distinguished are the living or the dead.
All are quiet ghosts
Tasting the certain past
And this turning, rolling, cooling night air.

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As if to remain
Were the price.
Time tips
And we tumble.
Vessels pouring into vessels,
Our sounds hollow,
Certainties measured,
Strangely vague.

All and nothing,
We stand rocking,
Drunk on swaying decks,
Seeking horizons.
Waking, dreams dissolve.
Sleep, and schemes fold inwards.

We name and name all things
Yet the Nameless still remains.
I shall hollow the wood,
Discover the bowl, round, knotted.
The receptive is the valley spirit,
Mother of all things.
It cannot fail, it is a veil,
A mist at dawn, a sigh,
A flight of silent birds heading west.
Leaves spin open, stretch green
Into dewy morning.
The air, still cold, substance
Slow moving.

The solace of hawks,
The solace of sparrows.
Clouds from the south pour light.
Moon-cooled, the blue west:
A line of hills none
Can see beyond.
It is as a veil, barely breathed,
Valley spirit holding, not holding,
Vast, the tip of the tongue,
A taste of spring,
A dream of summer.

For a moment,
Everything seemed perfect,
Before moving on.

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sideways drift
long bones curve

surprising silk,
always surprising

sideways drift

dream eyelid smile
opening pale, lucent

slip slow
foam falling

one drop
viscous, sweet

night falling in
acres: time blankets

enfolding white
silent gasp, always,

ever is
slightly vanishing

hidden, certain,

spine line

inward curve,
coved, curled

combed, covered,

sigh breathing

snow cold
melting, settling,


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Rook-haunted woods.
Still skies
Raven time,
Starling time,
Fog-drenched, silent.

A million leaves conjure
A beautiful demise,
Then fall into mud,
Crushed and grateful
For sleep:

Escaping from the growing cold,
This pinching of the candle of light,
The slip of degrees.

Skeleton time,
Unfleshed, sparse.
Silhouettes and shadows
Lost in dream:
The taste of loam
And marl.


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Six Haiku for Timeless Days

Cloud upon cloud
Over the still water
A cuckoo’s voice.


The wind
Is the ladder on the horizon
That those tall clouds climb.


The thunderstorm.
In this deserted garden
Only you and I,
Little frog.


Rain running off
A horse’s flanks.
The longest day.


Stone, standing
In an empty field.
Waiting, maybe.


My old home
– memories
Where I left them.


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Summer path


Clouds bloom , air cools.
One drop, then two.
Sudden scent of roses


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