Breath day

The first stone egg,
sea shaped
is laid at the cot
by the women of drowned men.
At birth breath,
each scatters knuckle bones worn
to hold love,
the cast foretells
what stones to gather,
the cobbles of a roadwalker,
the boulders of a housemaker
the slabs of a grave

Published in Three Drops from a Cauldron

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Lost in the turns

The eyes, the eyes never the snorting breath

Over the moor the clap of wings says the sun falls
and on the tree bones a tow-tow-tow-tow moan
calls down mist as I watch you turn and start back

At a table dinner in the silence of empty chatter
a locked out moon dances in the silver strew
of night while somewhere a vixen’s yelp rides the wind

With string found I walked away and left your horns

Published in three drops from a cauldron

In want of a relaxing countryside walk

I saw a horse today,
nothing strange about it.
Chestnut, with white patches
and the usual four legs,
not even the head and
body of a man.

I never understand why they can’t wear vests,
the centaur, not the horse that would be silly.
A string vest on a horse
makes it look like a haggis.

Alongside the horse,
the tree, an elm, stretched out
with the arms of a woman,
a young woman that made each
wave of a hand her tears
for the face was hidden by bark
and could not show
what was warmed by morning sun.

This was distressing
for if trees suffered as this
then what pain grows
in flowers and grass?

A walk on a summer’s day
is only pleasant and fine
because we never look
for the arms stretching up and out to the sun.

Perhaps, if the chestnut horse
had been strange with a man’s chest
in or out of a vest
I would not have lost
my solitude.

Published in three drops from a cauldron