St Petersburg


I nearly got to St Petersburg
I sailed out towards the Baltic

I tried to call you through the shimmer
(Remember the ferry sailing past the low rocky islands)

There were news reports of a Russian sub in the archipelago – I said –
The clouds were maps of what was coming – you said –

Everyone went crazy with accusations – I said –
Up there the infinities sneak through – you said –

Later a tiny one-man sub sailed into Sickla Canal – I said –
We were going along too easily – you said –

Did you get my messages – I said –
The clouds are always there, hard to read – you said –

The future’s a beautiful hope, inside and outside time
It’s why we nearly got to St Petersburg

Share This

Gaunt Harvest


I’ll be what travels with me
from my ears to my shoes
I’ll carve back my hair and my nails

My lightness will be massive
Each night will horde me
Every morning will stare back

I’ll close in on the gaunt way
listening with my shoes
Each day will strain me towards finalities

My face will turn amongst air
like that distant bird above wretched trees
where fruit falls like dying stars

Share This

The Crossing


Each night I’m surrounded
by ghosts, they cross the river,
with two dogs, one confident
and the brown one, the small
one, needing to try twice.

What if you fall in the river?
The dogs don’t worry.
And that is a relief.

As I’m going home
I could fail at least once.
The other dog, the dark one
will be there, companionable
and keen to get on, but always
coming back, to sniff out
the way, the steps to the river.

This is where you cross.
I will make it one day.

Share This

The Gap in the Trees


I’m less articulate than grass.

I hobble on my syllables

hoping something will surrender

a thought, maybe, a kindness,

a practicality.

A gap in the trees before sunset

does more.


The wind picks up

as the horizon I stare at

slips away from

the slope of today’s sun.

In some places there are no days.

I could write it down

but who knows what colour

anything is?

Does the sun have a colour?

Does water?


I don’t think birds do anything

in sentences

though I’m just making that up.

You don’t need a philosopher

to know everything changes.

You can’t step into a moment twice.

My thoughts waver

but not like a leaf.

It’s a manner of speaking.


If I thought talking to the sun

would help, I would

but the gap in the trees darkens.

The grass becomes fainter.

Whatever darkness is

it’s almost here. I turn on the light.

The light lights the room.

Nothing is inevitable.

Though maybe it is.

Share This

The River Night


All the old words are new words

aligned in a shaky way

all over the climbing sheet,

shanks of curtains, the crispy cords.


Now they wind me up

and work free in planet light,

the risky tintinnabulation

of vine, and tree, and thorn.


The night is always green.

It’s a flaky field of beat folly

and fishy streams,

jittery laps of unfinished work.


It’s the hour of lust and rain.

What do you do with lust and rain?

Drink and wander and shiver.

Hey, sometimes it’s all river.


Some thing laughs its dream.

Some thing swims above.

Some thing sheds its smoke.

Some thing runs.


I’m so afraid that I want to joke

in an hour of ardent seconds.

New words rain like love,

earth shaking its light, its weather.


I unfasten a thousand sheets.

I risk the river.

I find something patient

among wandering exhaust and sap.

Share This

Back to Authors