Saturday, 1 September 2012
Coffee, black as a final No
vibrant potential cries out – go!
Milk, mysterious as falling snow,
tipped and turning, says – hello!
Up to my mouth, a steaming brew;
lippy little liquid - suck, suck, thank you!
Turning away, I look at the sky;
old kitchen table, doorway, goodbye!
Lively as a hare, I plant three trees:
omelet, a little plate, yes, yes, please.
Terrible, the pathway from kitchen to lake;
fall down a pothole, my mistake!
Down on my knees, I clean up the mess,
cross another river with a great big Yes!
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
on ears and lips, tongues.
I’m way-word-weary today,
longing for real language
lilting a runabout between all the dots,
making my way through soft, soggy rain.
The undomesticated have no words.
The butterfly’s page is the wild, wild world
lilting a runabout between all the dots.
I walk, leaving footprints, a muddy trail.
Language, not words.
Sunday, 26 August 2012
I went for a wander to listen
out for natural song;
sheep with their backs to the wind,
a worm on its way to the west,
a horse who stands and, staring,
no longer feels for saddle,
or bit, or foot in a stirrup.
Still as a toad,
I’m aching for
my bubble brain
to stop all words.