There is a place
In  evergreen wiles
A permanent perfect                  
of boundless dimension,
I tarry untrying in idles of hours
Lost in the halls of this subtle domain


Walk with me there
To where willows thirst
On the banks by the bridge
Where cowslip with meadowsweet
Polka the pasture to pepper
The evening with notes of the rain



Gather me in-

-There,hold me in harvests
Of memory loved,- as when
  You turned your face

To the lights on the water

and smiled the glory of day into shame.

In the second hand soothing
of darkest address: frost crawls.
Having crept down the alleys
on  serpentine silvers
to pilfer the vaults of an Indian Summer,
in crystalline raiment
the malachite pavements
succumb to its covering sprawl.

On shellac returns of lamp delta falls
minutiae maraud in bitter sweet symmetry
shattering petals, encasing in glass
the Stella shot run of the vine.
A glacier tourniquet scuppers the mold
an accomplished assassin of natural device,
with icy indifference it hushes the *****:

The Moon, for the life in her eyes.

The wimpled scrolls recede....
The Authors of the braille sands
leave Northern marrow in their wording,
as sharp as Marram grasses bent
in keening subjugation....

Illuminated Sanskrit kelp,
infused with lust of fallen auras,
scrims the ****-green gartered breaks
now shaken from the glaucous mane,

while fleets of stippled cumuli,
( rain-chartered galleons of the West)
in line astern, prepare for war
beyond the deepened brim.

We,- the town-worn Pages- flutter,
drawn to trace the moiling hem,
to pour away into the water....

Salt-preened minions of the wind.

I have to unhand her, unhold her,
spell a widdershins wander
to unpick the stitches of time
sewn together.

I have to unlive her, unlove her,
-muster a fiction, a line of defence,
a charm of protection, a cobbled pretence
to convince that I'm better without her,

- but to court a dementia
that summons a shade
to centre upon the mistakes
that we made-
is, itself, a deceit.

For there were such pleasures
embossed on the soul
to remain in forevers
that cannot be changed.

The time of the shining of
Wind-summered grasses, has passed,
-To the lark-breast mottle-
The harvested skin of the
Senescent land

The candle-****** gutter of
Hurrying wing sees
The last of the coin
That was minted in thatches
Of deepwood
Of latticing bramble
Of crumbling eve.

The mourn of the Moorland
Has  feathered a will
With the clot of the Ash,
Where a heather of cinnabar
Freckles the splash of
a simmering tarn

As gravelling Easterlies
Peel the cling of
The verdigris fades,
Some twilight of sepia
Musters the pastel
of Wintering calm.

No sound disturbs
The cloud curled steeps of sea green pines
whose clinging oceanic thoughts
are freed, released from malted slopes.
Respired slow , the sallow spirals
herd to high, still, corrugations,
Their purse; a billion brooches
For their keep.


And, then a Raven
Barks its gloat across the drab pavilions
A dauntless hermit sculls away,
on myth buoyed strokes, to beat the bounds.
Carried from the pinioned ridge
away to secret monasteries.
Climbing from embroidered
oriental looms of Beech