Soft fog of light

soft fog of light
and tree sense

mist uncurls
and forms again

a branch in
grey silver
seems to die

moon sets
uncurling

unseen

my heart

in the fresh snap
of pine

forms again

Another poem inspired by the enigmatic Loch Voil in Scotland.

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Grief is the Crow

Grief is the crow
that stole the moon
and hid it in the shadows.

Grief is the shadow
that forgot the moon
and searches endlessly.

The heart an empty bowl,
a hand curls around
nothing but memory.

The end of grief
comes suddenly.

The crow soars
dark against the sun
and the heart soars with him,
free.

I am the Moon’s

A swirling under
the lunatic moon

she says
dance with me
yet stands
so far so
gleaming.

The wind pushes
leaves through
the tangles
of shadow-

at what cost
do I linger
in dappled night?

I am
the moon’s
so I am
not
lost

until
I am

caught in the
clarity of
the sun’s
eyes.

Heart of the Rose

My lungs crave
an uncommon air,
fruit of sun,
rain and dirt,

the sweet scent
of the flame
at the heart of
the rose.

One fell at her feet,

the sun lit
the stage
in gold,

my own heart
in the air
with her leaps,

toe pointed true
she spun through
the floor,
burning

until the rose opened

teaching me
the strength
in her delicate grace,

arms wide

the silk dress of
petals unfurled
to reveal

a heart of flame

the sun contained
in the delicate
body

born
of rain
and dirt
and fire.

Inky, Blinky, Pinky and Clyde

They whisp, spectres taken form.
Almost seen, they mask themselves
in cloaks and march through a
maze, constrained and floating.

The moon is what they are after.
She’s yellow, they know,
and round, full.

She’s tangible substance
while they float,
she strides,
while they are ever-hungry,
she eats.

Life, life they whisper in cracked
wind voices.

If they meet her, they will live.

Three persevere though one
cannot face the light,
and hides in a dark corner
dreaming of the moon.

The others chase,
sometimes catch!

– but she, intangible,
disappears.

This one is for all you Pacman fans!

Rain Flood

I saw the child.

I saw her tilt
her face
to the sky.

The rains are
clearing
the streets

cigarette butts
spiral into
gutters

trees drink
ankle-deep

soft earth
turns to
rivers

and change
the face
of the world.

The hundred year
old woman’s tears

flood down
her face
into
heaving
seas.

The child’s face
in bliss.

She takes the rain
in every pore.

The rain is love.
The rain is love.