How gently falls the rain


The soundscape slips away

To softness, almost vanishing

Into earth



As an unease brings wind-

Rain straying in from endless

Places of geological space




I sense skylarks-

Huge sea-creatures out of sea

Out of breath, an evening adrift



Until currents free the clouds

Rain-feed soaks

Beneath subterranean

Surfaces of garden

Insisting on definition



Becoming lightness

A pattering

Drizzling down.



How gently falls the rain.

How gently falls the fresh

Clear sound of water-music





Playing piano on the pond

As night slips in

Paddling a canoe



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On Messiaen: For the End of Time

History rolls in scratched into vinyl

A clear reflecting surface of cities


A clear reflecting surface of cities

Seeded in serrated grooves of river-


Beds, millions of hands composting

Soil, building time,


Building time.

Modes of limited transposition

Modes of limited transportation


Trains are never benign.


Trains are never benign

Passing through serrated grooves of river-

Soil, building time, millions of hands

Composting seeds, setting up camps


Setting up camps. If binaries build camps, cities

Rotate, gravitate, then I see ancient cities


Ancient us on the phonograph, record-player, turntable

Turning around


Turning around


I see ancient us, a discordant

Species long lost in space scratching

For seeds, setting barbed wire camps


Searching for seeds

Growing a meadowpatch

Hearing Messiaen


Travelling by train to the end of time



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A Cypress Flowers: Cypresses XII

Like a double helix turning

And turning, curving round

The scrubby shaking tree


Grows my pandorea instead

Of me. I would climb inside

And sit awhile looking out


At the passing scenes

Flitting across green suburban

Screens, shadowy wind figures


Blowing in, blowing out

Imagining no footholes,

A floundering projectionist


People wandering past

A long-limbed vine

Steadily climbing higher


And higher until

A cypress flowers pink

And white, a cypress shouts


Colour, shouts freedom

Though noone hears

It’s bursting heart.


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I think of Birdman

I try to write music

As you talk bird

For bird knows

You are bird too

Though you are man


If I were sound

I would speak tune

I would compose songs

That any bird

Could sing


Though I am not bird

And cannot sing.

I think of birdman

Talking poems that fly

Of chorister


Singing night owl

Singing verse

While I talk song

Squawking my lines

Like a bird


Though I am not bird

And cannot fly

Though I try.

Music talks to birdman

Talks to chorister


Talks to me

Hesitant on my perch

Learning to be bird

To be night

To be song.






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Sliver Moon and Yellow Freesias

we looked up at a sliver moon of silver

higher than the sky, more distant than

this day, and bolder than us all


holding a bunch of yellow freesias

perfumed and rich, grown with the scent

of childhood’s soil, stronger than us all


a momentary hesitation blinded by the sun

the crossing as cars darted in front careless

of us, of moon, of scent, almost overrun


the day slows down as traffic recedes leaving

silent dusk enclosing us in a vase full

of flowers and a resolute pause, a comma




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in which all the dietes flowered

this is the meaning of

affinity: dietes

on Saturday

all blooming


in suburbia

as if somehow

the soil, the air

the heat of the day

pulsated in a strong

string of rhythm

-no matter how

wild the irises-

I saw harmony


among the solitary

pram mums,

dogs and random

gardener ambling



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