in the moth darkof time betweennightjar wheelson silent wingsbefore first lightbreaks the skyand winter treeslike skeleton leavesbare witness tothe rising sun.
they say that deathmight comelike a thief in the night,but love knows those pathsthrough the deep mystery too,asking nothing of usbut all we are to give, and waking one morningearly summer lightto find my belly stretched tautmarked welt-red and wildlike the skin of a shadow-play beastrippling with life,i knew this love would be fierce –that…
they are small streams nowthat cut these deep valleys –rock slip moist mosswhere light can hardly touchbut here shaftbeam drift lightthrough tall trees and airhung with water dropletsand spore,touching bracket or fern leafor foot. small streams nowthat roar with the raintumbling debris,hanging upriver grassin the trees with the floodline. small streams thatspeak gentle overrock shelvesstill…
holy is the touch of rain on morning skinnew woken to the mist hung world holy is the sunbird, iridescent voicein the murmuring trees. holy is the dew hung leafoffering green prayersto the morning. holy is the mudslip wet and dark with life,warm with the season’s turning. holy is the songshared breath on our lipsshaping…
1.where to begin with thiswhere to begin storya lightening breath,a slow steady knowing,accepting our surrender,a what comes comes. 2.and perhaps and perhaps there is a planet bthat living in a new way has created the world anewbecause actually and actually this existed all along 3.there are quiet questionsthat sing this night into sky,waking the wearyfrom…
some mornings i forgetwith the metal of wheelbarrowleaning cool into the curlof fingers damp with mash,the grind of grit in axlea constant to the step gravel crunchof road underfootbuckets shufflingamong the slices of hay and the stamp and breath of horseswaiting down the end of the road,old now with sharp flanksand gentle eyes, and it…
so late my loveand the day still needs doingthough sun has long slipped the horizonand only the night jar still sings, but there are stars nowmy loveaching with light long held –come breathe with methis unravelling sky.
in the quiet lightof mist morningbirdsong falls like rain condensationleaf gatheredand pouredfor the thirsty,the waiting,the listening – birdsong fallinglike rainfrom the trees.
we had stones and bones to mark the time, moons scratched on the doorpost counting months until birth until harvest, counting lean months until planting and none of it shifted but the ebb and flow of generations swirling the tide, burying the bones –ancestors and descendants of place lapping at the granite edges of…
friday evening finds me, eve of solstice oiling my spinning wheel adjusting the drive band and spindle whorl until the wheel turns true – the wood glowing warm by firelight.this wheel is older than i, felled from a forest in someone else’s backyard, continents away – worked and shaped and turned until the maker honoured…