The ruins

The start of a life is a brick to a building, many more to follow
though the house is never complete. It needs a balcony for better views,
an attic to forget, a cellar for hiding, an extension or two after each surgery,
a garden to bury in.

And then the whole thing collapses, the ruins taken over
by oblivious weeds. Such are the streets our minds wander off to
in deep of nights, awaiting anaesthesia.



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.

The attic

There is an attic in my house I never go
yet all is there: the past in suitcases and wood,
in plastic, covered up in dust; the present in chaotic piles
of things that stay but ought to go.

I won’t go there, not for a while, and
in an empty corner rests the future. Or not at rest
but haunts at night and cracks the floor.
It all is there but why, what for?

Nothing of the ordinary

Sometimes I wonder if you ever think of me,
Remember afternoons we spent together.
Your silence goes so well with grieve and distance,
Are memories not lies in many ways?

I ought to integrate the people we both met there,
Or the ones who should have been perhaps,
To give the whole experience a twist, a change,
To make it more mundane and practical, like  daily cups and saucers.

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



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