A Felt Essence

Pulled earthwards,
its branches drugged,
heavy, thick, sticky with sap.

A stoner whose wrist can’t lift,
Soaking up the wrung out, wet earth.

Suspended over the slow water.
Feeling itself hanging.

Lacy leaves trail the flow:
a sleepy lady’s fingers
kissIng the surface.

Me on the warm grass.
Eyes closed.

The invisible coursing
of blood and thoughts.

The autonomic flow
of an invisible will.

Sea Change

Have you ever tried
at a beach, to stand
at the last of the land,
where the dried-out sand

no longer touched
by the waters edge-
it’s slow retreat
to the horizons ledge,

away from the sea
and looked inland
what’s gone
for what is planned,

from the sunset
until it’s gone
and waited
through night
for your coming dawn.

The Nourisher

Weak (like water), but not weak.
Clear (like water), but not clear.

Pure (like water).
Soft (like mizzled rain).

Necessary (like water).
Life-giving (like water).

Natural (like raindrops on) skin.

you, around you.

Water reflecting water.

Belief (dream)


in the shadowzone.

Always there.

This wee green thing,

in the corner,
in the dark of me.

I project loneliness onto it.

It hums contentedly.
Not patient. Not waiting. But ever there.

And as I approach, I become it, taking over its’ song.

The world lightens.

How Wrong for Grass

How wrong for grass
to grow here,
how un-useful and ridiculous
as if mocking us
in our syllogisms of dust, dirt and mud.

In Victorian backyards
playing our kids’ games- arguments
in preparation for decay.
Our grubby little hands happily alive
clawing through rubble, hurling half-bricks.

Scabby-kneed, black-eyed.
Our outdoor world of muck and middens.
Crumbling dikes.
An uncared for land.
How wrong for hope.

I think mine came from comics.

Just a Blue Dress Dream

Three guys. In a room, at a window.
Me constantly tapping on the back of another
with what feels like a big white plastic hook.
He’s an ex-work colleague I don’t particularly like.
I keep tapping rapidly.
He eventually says he wishes I would stop.
I say – all you had to do was tell me.

A woman comes into the room.
A blue dress. 1960s look to her. Impersonal motherliness.
As I look at her, at one side of the room, I am aware of her likeness
simultaneously appearing in the corner of my eye on the other side,
Walking, indistinct.
How does she do that?
Then a hazy version of her appears beside her.
More versions proliferate in the background. I remember she is dead.

I pick up one of the other two guys, carrying him over my shoulder
towards a picture on the far wall. As I near, I point into it
looking for the funeral parlour I’m supposed to take him to, but the picture,
although getting clearer, is never clear enough.

OK. I think the first bit is quite straightforward. I’m hoping to take early retirement from psychiatric nursing soon, and with me continually pick pick picking away at the working me, who I’m not happy with, he says he wishes I wold stop (working?) the voice of wisdom tells me all I had to do was ask…it’s within my control. At the moment I’m presuming the lady in the blue dress is my creative side…we’ll see where that goes.


As I read
I saw successive cups

make a mandorla,

and feeling blessed
by synchronicity,

I dove in

in song;

old tunes

by an earth-angel.

And later I lay
sloughing acquired fancies
in the dark,
with new ideas, pinking
and baby-like,
in a thin skin-coat
into the oldest of my souls.

A match to light the way.