at noon

a deafening adieu as butcher birds

peal their retreat from the midday sun

while street workers uselessly patching potholes

stop drilling for lunch


there follows a long pause

of muted sound

a sustained piano pedal

in which a hundred thoughts

drift around the garden

to plant themselves

alongside rose, mandevilla

and lily


to flower in silence.

This is now.

Then there was just quiet.



Copyrighted by the author

when poetry departs, I turn to Glass

It leaves me berefit

Of words.         it’s an emptying out


A poetic slur.      an illusion appears

Opening a cave’s mirror

To a mind      furrowed

Burrowing in ideas

Glass ones.        then solid relief

Hera holds a lily

Afloat a mandolin, pure notes

Drop poems like fresh milk

In my robust tea



Copyrighted by the author

Protests and Cyclamen

Cut flowers only; the markets start

before dawn. Too early for the budget papers

delivered by smirkers, you know, those

smug politicians who wait until evening

to expedite bad news.

You should arrive with the vans

so you can inhale

the mix of aromas, fresh bread, spuds.

Onion and Rose come

all the way from the outer suburbs

grown in stretches, row upon row

or from a patch. Patched with recycled

scraps, compost richly warm so that

Anything grows;


Ah hello there Cyclamen

my old friend, bobbing pinky mauve

gaily flourishing, exuberant

next to Lily, lovely as ever

today tinged with red streaks;

Grown from working lands

Grown with working hands

Grown with love’s labour

My garden grows a protest

My garden becomes a history

For now I will chant:

Cut flowers only.


Copyrighted by the author