Blind Chaffinch

Such nimble, quicker artistry,
Electric in their chemistry;
Fleet-footed, twig throne-seated,
In awe of more than fourteen free;
Chiding, momentarily;
Mocking and most formidably
Locking braiding jaws and beaks
Like dank dim horns
Sub-knuckerholes,
(Only these were forged
For popping seeds);
Then, confiding in their trembling,
Under withered-wimpled leaves
And snowdrop cloaks,
Within a cloister weighted-down
By later morning apogees;
Exuberant rain-dance chatter
With ancient unsolved dialects;
Newly found, this youthfulness
Could put all suffering, hubris
And pedantry
To bed.

A run on pumps,
Bleak the river bends.
I can hear the notes
But cannot see
Something so obvious
Ending just in front of me.

Slowly The Silenced Soil Awakes

Slowly the silenced soil awakes
In great uncoilings of morning;
With heated blades their gas escapes,
Funneled from a foreign space,
A foamy, loamy environ
Beneath this heathy earth
Where truths are boiling in cauldrons
And with sediment recoiling.
Up here, for now at least,
Cold air, hoar frost,
Joggers puffing underneath
Skies as thin and grey
As dreams in a mute swan’s fleece;
Dog-walkers convene
With latent conversation,
Still wearing knitted hats,
Last year’s scarves
And woollen gloves,
Their feet patting paths
Like rain-charming starlings –
Only, the worms that emerge
Are solemn words reverberating
From our lost and lonely interred,
Their vapour trails rising
As blinding reminders;
The weeds and moss
As speechless as froths
Of periwinkle –
Embosser of Murderous Time –
And snowdrops huddled
Within a darkening corner,
Nervous, fragile ambassadors
Held fast to those Masts of Time;
Spring’s contract is unfettered
And these vernal lows are bettered;
The Goddess of Dawn stretches
Indolently, and is yawning
Before her audience
Begin their eternal dance.

Valhöll

I did not say good morning
To a magpie, solitary fellow,
Conspiring with a rooftop
To clag my hindered eyelids.

Nothing changed.
The day stayed the same.
Grey, motionless torpor.

A leaf appeasing gravity
Spiralled to the floor;
Breathing-in is a luxury
I cannot afford.

Under a lantern-clad ladder
Leaning up into Valhalla
I mindlessly walked;
I stamped on cracks,
Send me back,
And smashed a mirror
With my orb.

Nothing changed.
The night stayed the same.
Sirens, waves of woe
And obsolete laws.

That magpie loosened its claws
And disappeared into
All-consuming hours
Which do devour in tides
Both the man and the boy.

Melt Like Butter

Butter on its own
Isn’t much to write home about,
But melted in the middle
Of a croissant, on a
Crescent-shaped plate,
At a hotel morning room
In the early fabled light
Only found in Istanbul,
Is transcendental.

And now I’m writing home,
Meditation on its own
Won’t fill letters from heaven,
But meditation on a lotus
In the eye of the dharma elevates
The breath and the floating moment
Into something translucent
As I meditate, alone,
On a parcel of butter.

A Subtle Shift

A subtle shift unseen,
As my feet’s eyes
Apply pressure
On the pedals

Of my soul, I cannot see
The inner workings, blind
To the ingenuity
Of industries,

A movement of gears,
It has taken years
To reduce these fears
Traducing that same soul,

Ineffable, yet bruising.
I can brew their organs
And bones in a saucepan
With pinches of parsley,

Oregano, and Hope.
Sipping from such knowledge,
This world can slow
Its quiet revolutions.

Slow down, runners,
There’s no need to rush,
As everything unfolds
Now and again, with love.