in a poem weather’s never weather, there’s something other:
behind that cloud, transitory; in back of sunshine, egg.
if it’s raining, it’s not raining; if it’s bright it’s harsh
if the valley’s brimmed with fog, well maybe…
‘It started the day we moved in,’ the woman says.
‘We wake at 3 or 4 in the morning to explosions and banging,’ the man says. ‘The bedroom is thick with smoke and flames are curling up the doorframe.’
A piece dedicated to my on-going hand therapy.
And for your pleasure here’s Leonard Cohen going ‘no more a’ rovin’ (lyrics by Lord Byron) from a favourite album Dear Heather.
Down in the channel the tide inhales and
seaflowers fixed in the surge and swirling
rush wave frantic at tenant fish tripping. Continue reading
Like all writers, I like words. I keep a list of admirable words on hand and every so often I’ll pick one and say aloud, ‘Yes, quiddity.’ Continue reading
Seriously, there’s still so much to do
winter snows, my joints ache,
eyes too (I’ve a list). Continue reading
…of the Powerful Owl (Ninox strenua)
:
(a)typical silhouette V-shaped
flies on super-soft-silent
(into buildings, cars, transmission lines) Continue reading
