Fresh meadow geums populate a page

With curiosity leaving space to write.

To write open fields. To write cosmos

In among glorious geums, their luminosity

Percolated in this messy storeroom of a mind.

Dotted the Drakensberg drive perhaps,

Around the goats tinkling their bells

To the oracle in Delphi? I sat once

With mountain flowers whatever they were

And it is the mountain top I write.

The quiet. Flower whispers. Breeze

Creases in wild grasses. Distant life.

They can be yellow geums.

A memory waving in a pot outside

My frontdoor.


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Snow Blizzard

Somewhere the snow blows all sound away

Except for footsteps crunching deep in layer

Upon layer of fresh crumbled blizzard storm.


But this was years ago in a train climbing the Alps

That I grew tired of the glare, the whiteness spread

Over every surface, the soundlessness of nature


Or so it seemed. I imagine greeness grows like snow

Across theĀ garden wall. I plant my spanish shawl

Again to cover space and time, fresh scrunching


As the chorister and I trod leaves underfoot

Each autumn, talking chatter of insects crossing

Borders, ridges, stories even, the ones we write


To fill the gaps of memory even as it all starts

To grow sense, to broaden far wider than Alps

Or even the garden fence. I drink snow today.


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A Pause

There breathes the day, waiting.

A caesura hangs, somewhere between

Humid or cool, beating time

Before the rain arrives

Or does not. I plant cuttings

Expectantly, a gardener tending

To composition so that notes

Tune up for some kind of harmony.

Perhaps the choruses of night sounds

(The chorister as alto to the insect

Sopranos) sense the very moment

All nature pauses

As plants prepare to orchestrate

Their summer seguidilla


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where there is wind-light

today there are shadows, moving shapes

skating in angular angst across bent

and stalwart salviasĀ  gasping for stillness.

where there is wind-light a relentlessness

seems to follow in pursuit of a perfection

long lost in the blowing and seething

gusts heaving in from the north-west.

strong plants resist the urge to bend,

a rose stays upright with dignity.

there is such a clattering, banging,

knocking of doors, cypresses, sycamore

bowing low over the meadowpatch

that I sit indoors watching cascades

of light flit past, dipping in, and then gone.


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then there was yellow

painted sky floats like a cut-out far above green, azure, celadon

blue made bluer by the wash of pink blushing walls

beyond the gallery. an artist of light brought a crater

to the stars, travelling a path to natural life.

then there was yellow, a wildflower waving to me

across the marketplace so that my pace quickened

in recognition. now this bright sun of fields

bobs next to me for a long drive home to meadowpatch.



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