Sunday, 19 July 2009


This afternoon the moors have all but released
Recent rain into the come-again gullies
Feeding streams. The waterfall is hitting
A river in spate, white sound punctuated only by
The belch of a singular wave breaking persistently,
Un-predictably, against the flow. It is this quirk
That gives the water a time signature I 
Cannot discern, let alone explain in word or number.
Intervals are variable, so the beat has no pattern,
But it's inadequate to call this random.
Better speculate these changes are immeasurable,
Although not permanent.

Monday, 6 July 2009


Here are you whose fringe is
Split off-centre, resting on top of
Square spectacles. When your fingers press
It is as if plainsong drifts into me.
Try not to talk.
Some things are so good it is not
Possible to know when they have stopped.
The song passes through itself
On the way back.
Let go of thoughts.
Each touch an echo of one
That went before a time I
Can't be sure about. This quiet
Is your voice.