Dream

How do we hobble towards love?
Hobble I do through the dim streetscape
to the four-winged statue
poised on the horizon

The little girl weeps,
struck with a switch.
I croon to her like a mother.
I brush her hair,
I untangle it like thoughts,
so many dark worms writhing
from tiny follicles,
seeking voices and tongues.

Her shock uncoils in silken waves,
strata of silt immemorial
packed in the immaculate river bed.

Angel of love enfold us
in your blood heat and feathers.
Stone be warm.  Embrace us
in the boon of love.

Saturday 25th March at the Lyrebird

Poster by Helena Ashton, vocalist with Noir.

Light

Sun in the glass,
a spangle — a spark!

Light let loose lets loose
epiphanies

hidden unseen and in between
a particle, a wave.

Light bends a band of rainbows
scattered at the scattered brim.

Light tells a million fortunes
in the echo of a window.

Light lures a host of angels
to toast eternal morning.

Strings of worlds rise like bubbles
in the shining flute.

After these years

of trillion transformations

I'll find myself wandering,
seeking a new form.

My bodiless eyes
will grow accustomed to phantoms
and colours that don't exist.

I'll wear the ghosts of my hands and hair.
I'll walk on the ghosts of my feet
along immaterial highways —

counting as I go unearthly trees
that flower and fruit
berries embedded in whorls of thorns.

Will I meet ogres? Angels? Stars?
Spirits from abandoned temples?
Megafauna of unborn planets?

I'll taste the fruit of the ghost thorn tree.
Its juice runs redder than my dead heart.

I'll remember it beating
the measure of my years
in my evanescent chest
at the centre of my flame.

Illumination

Un verre d’eau éclaire le monde

                                          Jean Cocteau 

A clean gleam —
the world is washed
upside-down in a tumbler.

A branching tree
climbs and delves
a perfect round.

A sheer aubade —
a host of parallels —
hallows the sky

and still I rise
up among the steeples,
gleaning meanings

and mirrored vigils.
All the streets and buildings
are jumbled sigils

swimming in a tremble
on the table-top.

The bridge

The bridge spans the stream between
fields of flowers and muddy trails.

I wish I'd caught the pixels—
pointilliste perspectives and a vanishing point.

Grey wood and keeling beams,
frogs by the saponated stream
creaking unseen.

I seek Your images
to keep forever
on my screen.

Flowers wink
in the falling light.
Frogs in the grey grass
creak unseen.