Between the Worlds

The sky looked as it’s never looked again.
The breeze carried words on the tip of its tongue:

We thrived in this hiatus of routine:
All day the giddy colours of a dream
then the lucidity of darkness.

A sunset infused with such terminal red
it shocked the whole harbor at Fishbourne,
heightened senses, the discarding of self-consciousness:

These were our compensations
for what was to come.
Inerasable images.



In the soil of the allotment
frost thrives
frost thrives
in lungs of roots and seeds.

Across the bay
light puckers
light drains away
to one last fold of gold.

Now I’m expected to lie beneath covers
without will
in darkness.

A heart half-stilled
still ticking
listening to the rain’s thunders.


All night I listen to the fair being dismantled,

lie imagining the carousel disbanded –

horse by horse –

the bagging-up of goldfish;

that longed-for rush

as lost coins fill the mouths of lifted slots.

Our sycamore’s shawlless.

Frost seizes flower beds.

Goose-pimpled legs chase covers.

Suddenly hedgerows are restless with the seeds of flight,

sewn in a dream.

Now as light

sliced by the blind

steepens its gradient,

ticking engines wait to migrate to the cold roads of England.

Over ponds and wetlands wild birds practice formations.