Friday, November 16, 2018

The shower

I got you in the shower,
lathering your huddled
body, soaping, washing
your private parts, in a

hiss of steam, as if the
snake of grief raised
hooded head to strike;
and you wept, while

I washed; not knowing
what else could be
done but to clean the
physical, as the mental

grew in stinking mould,
and the heart hollowed
in your distress and fear;
so did the daughter play

attendant on this tragic
piece of theatre, of
life in all of its cruel
being- as if mere soap

and flannel, could
wash away what was;
remove the awful and
looming reality, that

you were alone, and
there was no-one else
to take his place, to
hold you up; and the

arms of a child, while
willing, would always
be too frightened frail
to soothe the pain.

So, I washed, at all that
you were and all he had
known, achieving little
but baptismal flesh.

Friday, November 9, 2018


Dreams do hang in unison,
pegged to tired wires,
teased by listless breezes;
dried by life's desires.

Frayed on every corner,
tangled threads reveal,
stories are unravelling;
such is time's appeal.

Washed in silent suds,
offered to the rains,
call to be recovered;
rescued from the pain.

Birds in curious waiting,
balance on the line,
thus is doubt attending;
so are dreams denied.

Tuesday, October 23, 2018


I am always early,
arriving ready,
just in case, there is
a chance of being

late.  Except for
when I was born:
three weeks over,
and yet, finally here,

and perhaps from
that day, always early,
as if to make up
for my tardiness.

Monday, October 22, 2018

Middle time

This moment falls
in middle time; that
place where past
and future have no

face, and the ground
is held by present,
embracing all the
space, and smiling

in the gaze of distant
possibility, both
behind and ahead in
this path through life.

How did it come to
be, in this unexpected
way, which prior
thoughts did not hold,

which neither fears
nor hopes described?
Surprising in its
presence, such trick

of time and space,
born without thought,
simply happening,
as if it had always been.

Saturday, September 29, 2018

as the years pass

It is harder to hold to
dreams as the years
pass. They slip like
gossamer in a wind,

which teases, irritable
and disconcerting, as
if it had been planned,
for just these times;

so do we enter the
days of the mundane,
the real, the practical,
without the shawl of

fantasy, to blur the
bitter edges, soften
the hard shapes -
create possibilities

for those we love,
and all of the things
we thought we might
do and be, in this

allotted time. Does
it matter? Or is this
how it was always
meant to be in a

slow process of
waking up, before
the last true moment
of awakening?

Friday, September 28, 2018


The covers pulled,
the bed prepared,
ready to receive,
the body naked
with all removed,
no face to show
the world, just
simple flesh and
being, just self
and soul and me;
how easy is that
resting where
nothing does

Sunday, September 16, 2018

The crack

In that faint crack
on the far wall,
my eye rested, as
if too weary to

wander further, or
as if the break in
the facade, so fine
demanded to be

seen, called out
to be recognised
as a light tearing:
like my heart.