Time

I reason, heading West
into a squinting sun

that cloud shapes, dappled
herringbone, will not be around

for more than minutes
before they fall or soar

and make their way back home
in hours or days by plummeting rain

along a stream and river,
freshwater clean,

until, salty as tears, in the sea
after three thousand years

they are blessed again with ascension,
I reason, heading West.

Cycle

No, I say, get off my turf,
my front door’s shut, bugger off.

Hello, I say and think – maybe -
blow a kiss, a smile for you.

Thanks, we say, winkety wink,
have a cuppa, share a drink.

Goodbye, you say, I had a blast
and walk towards a fire, the West.

Oooo

Waiting, it finds you
- wind on your face and hands -
usually cool,
on the move

(as breath
soothes your nose
below brainbox’s branches,
above all those words on your tongue)

roaring a bushfire, crackling twigs
from tree onto shimmering tree.

Compass

North

from London,
a juddering train,
silver rain, traveling shadows.

At my table I can see 3 empty seats
as if I have no mates, or smell like a beast
and now, spinning around, I perceive

your pull – but you are miles away
and I feel an ache. I long to
swing and quiver,
turn my heat
to you from
way down

South.

Solomon

Because he speaks straightforwardly,
Andrew tells you what he wants;
like -food- or story -food- or music
and, coming at you,
intimacy
punctuates and forces

danger in a clear decision
of choosing from your right and wrong.

Butterfly Collector

'I am a butterfly. I am not a butterfly collector. I
want the experience of the butterfly' - William Stafford

Look, you’re sitting in pub
after a nice meal, belly full,
when music hits the juke box – Abba;
sitting in a pub.

Your son starts to dance
Elvis’s hip movements, jumps,
and then with windmill motion, butterfly,
your son starts to dance.

You sit and smile, like many
in this crowded restaurant, amazed at expression,
sitting and watching a dancing boy,
you sit and smile, like many.

Listening to a female

She said something, something was said here
but in what language? Nothing clear!
Nothing simple until, ages later,
saying little, I slowly get it, get it – get it?

Little by little. Like everything as far
as eyes can see – like everything illuminated by
a morning sunshine smiling on a perfect cove
when everything grows simple, after all.