This is a place for some poems that are not published elsewhere. For other poems – and writing – see the Publications page.



If one of us was gone
and plucked almost silently
and lost amongst the gulls
long crowned white for winter

If they slid above the blackened fields
to lift your raincoat and fedora
like an old plume of a cigarette
rising trembling for a dawn

And if autumn was an alternating stance
and your cedar and nylon
just left us as leaves clinging
in a rosewood November blaze

And if your voice became a slow drum rumble
and outside your mountain room
by the sagging lengthening briars
aphids still gathered at the buds



What is almost over
is this mourning’s
mist-shroud lifting


What is closer, coming,
is cool wet skin
drying for new light


What is clearing
is the detail brushed
with the dream of day


What is black and white
but a slow tumble
out from grey on grey?