Pigeon

A blob of fluff fallen

on the scuff of bitumen

where a walker strolls

in the winter cold.

A tiny feathered thing

with a chance to live.

 

Person takes this thing

as yet unformed, to calm

and sun and makes a nest

and pigeon lives and knows

and finds a place one day

where cosmos grows

 

to be half pigeon

and half  like the human heart

who gave it life and walks by

still.

 

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Silentium

Among the wildflowers of the mind

skywards to a speck of star

silence climbs; a swallow in still

flight

 

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Tabula Rasa

Sit then and ponder

the delicacy of a blue

as sky leaves this day,

the fluting of a bird

tuning to night, sea

orange like wave tips

dipping away. See,

for it to be

 

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Stabat Mater

Turning together

seems impossible

in this history of ours

spinning around

looking away

turning away

walking away

this blob of earth

sick with sorrow

 

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Patchwork

Leaftime, patterns of colour

you see them too though

through a blurred lens

you fill in the missing bits

with greens, the colour

of growing herbage

is all you need,

to remember

 

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Lyrid

We’re drifting through

spacescapes and dustland,

a new moon somewhere

in the tailspin of lightwaves

and silent icecaps. We created

the unequal here              radiance

streaks away,  our ancient

possibility

 

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Fratres

Serene the dusk

lightly touched

feathered clouds

hinting at fleeting

 

This sky

of binaries spinning

beyond galaxies

but not imagining

 

With all

our heart, tinged

beat by steady

beat

 

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Salve Intemerata

This we share: a crickety dusk

a sky darkening with vanishing

blue, an insect world working

the soil even as the last bee

turns like a drone and buzzes

away, a hearkening of an outside

which still solders us together

 

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Spem in Alium

And so it is always thus.

 

They talk of bridges and great things

and better times and hope and of course

of course we all agree

 

except that the left behind, who are always

left behind, are pondering

food and shelter

 

and the other left behind, who often

feel they are left behind, need

money

 

or so currawong reflects

the breeze ruffling its feathers

in the interregnum

 

and some have hope

that hope should reside

in solidarity

 

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Silentium

Speedwell little plant, like a boat

rocking away to the USA

they call you carefree, is that for us

or for you,  so you can toss your blue

around the rocks and go as wild as

nature in the silent sun… speedwell

little friend, the soil is dry and a spot

is bare

 

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