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Some shadows give a preview of the dark,
Tree leaves dancing on a kitchen floor,
An omen for the day the tree is dead.

We need no more proof that all is our imagination,
We are here; the tree is not, yet do we see it move.
I’m here for now. My shadow has its own life to continue.

Visiting the ruins

We are in the abbey with no roof, yet
seconds before they disappear behind limestone pillars,
monks can be seen, disguised as seagulls,
chanting words can be heard, a murmur of Latin prayers,
mistaken for the roar of the North Sea.

When I make a photo of you looking over the harbour,
standing next to you is an astonished man
with a tonsure of a Benedict
who opens his mouth in the way of Munch’s Scream
but I only hear Kittiwakes yell and his wife calling him Pete.

I capture your smile outside the abbey. You face the tea room.
Behind you in the abbey continuing prayers,
chanting, movements of medieval life.

Indra’s Net

Indra’s Net on

51TK305nQLL._SX311_BO1,204,203,200_ indra

An anthology of poetry in aid of the Book Bus  🙂

Bennison Books- post about this book!

(my poem The Balance is also included)


19679059_10209933770240849_3851469998816206281_o 4 juli 2017



The marker

our parents had war as marker in time
we used family holidays as such,
and wars, those too, though not as much, would give
our memory more appropriate and
clear images of memorable days.
as reference of a book we had read;
a new cat coming, or an old one dead.

‘yes that was right after the heat wave there,
in belgium, in the ardennes, remember.’
‘the year you bought that hat was when we were
in england. that museum! the hand!’ laughter.
and when the war in bosnia kept us
awake we said bedtime rhymes to the boys.
that was then. nights without sleep. together.

when you got cancer, that whole year, we stayed
at home and I don’t recall of any
war but the fight that went on inside of
your body. time had stopped, was precious
and we filled it. laughter. sleepless nights. books.
and now all is marked as the time after
that day, the funeral, the first year so.

Lived through days

She found swallows which had crashed already dead
And dried flowers which would dust away;
She was breathing death before it was her time

(And then it didn’t come, and she became a hundred)

But there were days as well with too much life
With buttercupslight and lambs still happy for the slaughter,
There were days that might have been forever

In everything uniting she found power,
She read with all her strength as much as had been said,
From every word retrieving evidence
Of a reality and she was not alone.


Breathe the air unseen
And fit into the water;
The Earth won’t drop you.

Dream the rain, eyes closed,
Hear steps become a river
Where fish go, seabound.

Let your feet touch sand,
Smell light as you walk down
Unseen. Leave for now.

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