What new story shall we tell?
Pen poised, ink at hand;
A monk with his parchment,
I regard the taught softness of your skin.

Many tales are told within this frame
Hidden writing, words re-cognised,
Re-formed, thoughts realigned.
The surface ready for the shock of ink.

The stylus swoops and dips.
Clause and meaning spring to life,
The subtlety of language.
Tales are interwoven in this place;
A shared and secret grammar;
A mystery; the mastery of form.

October 2015

WTC (from ‘Ghosts’)

the magnificent skyline
seen across the bay;

the two obsidian
fingers raised in salute.

The falling figures.

The pillar of cloud and fire;
the concertina-ing floors

the shroud of dust veiling
the shame of nakedness


the storm of ash
pompeiing the
canyons of Manhattan.

Remembering –
with still-fascinated horror
the traders of the world;

a touchstone for our
generation, redefining
the bitterness and fall:
the wormwood and the gall.


Revelation 18; Lamentations 3

From the Lightning Master

I long for your return
from distant lands
where strength is sapped
and touch frozen;

Your gaze vague
with contemplation
of galactic nights
spangled above your ice
setting your homecourse.

O wing winds of light, my love,
return with storm –
instantly melt in my embrace –
your eyes deeps
where crystal heights
and depths meet.