truth is the sun rosethis morning, splattering of lightlow and cold – birds on high branchesmoving and feeding to stay warm aliveshaking water from the treeswhile cold feetin thick socks and gumbootswade the night rain become mud.i know that inside a warm fire waitsand teaalways tea. truth is, arm down a burrowin soft wrapped fur,i…
end of julydeep winter coldand mountains capped with snow.first day out to clear the beds,spread compost like a blanketthick black and warm –new moon in augustwe will plant the summer seeds. end of julydeep winter coldout in the garden to prepare the beds –trellis the peas while first cuckoos,emerald green and tail flicking,call from the…
1.this morningthe moon setsin a song wing skyand the world turnstowards the light. 2.there is a body countin this poem,between the lines,between the writingand the reading of this poempeople have died,as a third wave rises tsunamiand we track its progresscontinent to continentuntil it crashes our shores,until tuesdaysmashes recordsfor new infectionsin a 24 hour period a…
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…
quiet among the dapples a breeze has come to sway the canopy and stir small birds into busy and chatter – while leaves, dangled spider-silk, twist lazily catching light.
in the mountains of our childhood there are stone sun paths, made by smaller feet than ours, that run contours through the bristle brush and crushed scent of fynbos. bright paths of wild lobelia and small bulbs exploding colour with names like beautiful women. paths that skirt boulders, sandstone giants skitting with small lizards in…
if my being in the world is enough it implies my living – as my being here alive right now, is how i am here at all. it is living that being that asks for action for quickening enlivening deepening there is no compromise either my foot on this path enlivens, dirt tread – leaf…
cormorant wheels black wings along the tide, lands an arc of water against the wind. turning her back on the banked clouds rolling dark across hills she slips beneath the surface silent.
waking starless under a blanket of mist thickened sky – knowing my night was peopled by dream, busy with colour and the almost taste of something remembered that exists there – here in the mist crowded morning only the spider-webs, night written and condensed into form, are visible.