the sun sings its swan song at ev’en,
falls low like a fortress of fire,

destroyed by a kingdom believed in,
by an army whose feet never tire;


and the sea calls out loud like an egyptian,
her pyramids built out of sand,

her headdress the skies sweet inscription
the cloud’s dark dreamland.


and love is the song that the wave sings,
as the ghosts of the sea start to rest,

and they crash with the chill that the night brings
like a book where a  flower was pressed,


and the waves bloom and die like spring blossom,
sing a song as eternal as cloud,

sing of life, sing of death at her *****,
the sea foam her shroud.

the meadows are filled with wild flowers,
the sky holds the warrior bird,

the rain with her solitary showers,
the moon’s with her pathway all curved,


delight of the sky and the highway,
as dissonant as a dark minor key,

oh, sea, of desire walks her causeway,
from you unto me.  


the moon glitters like an old sovereign,
conjures magics as sweet as the sea,

a song ne’er remembered but forgotten,
in the vaults of our lost memories,


the stars shine like miniature lanterns,
more of lamplight than this pretty night,    

shining clear in their old archaic patterns,
both cheerful and bright.


and the dark speaks out loud to her brother
sings of cloud bursts and moonlight and rain,

and the ghosts of her once ancient mother,
tells us life flows like blood in the vein,


the frosty dark sky with her night ****,
sings of freedom and knows not of slaves,

while the sea as it brims to the far shore,
all filmy, white waves.


oh, darkness, oh, sister, remember,
the fight for the shore is ne’er won,

from  january through to december,
while the wilderness sings to the sun,


the dark has known only of winter,
her battlements rise to the sky,

wait forever for the first songs of summer,
that blossom then die.


for daylight arrives with its flurry,
of bird song and sunlight at dawn,

while the ceaseless, relentless waves scurry,
draw in close with their breath of the morn,


no death could e’er be imagined,
of a sea as eternal as air,

that the scampering wind swiftly maddened,
where the wild rafters swear.


the grasses blow flat on the wetlands,
where the puddles lie hoary and grey,

and the heron sweeps up to the headland
with its wings full of the glory of day,


the wildflowers bud in the meadows,
thick purples and bronzes and golds,

poppies red as the rust of a wild rose,
rufescent and bold.

the wind has something of your wild song,
whispers in a voice i knew long ago.

there is nothing here accept the empty wind,
nothing of you and me,

i could paint the silence with the moon,
kiss your mouth, touch your hair....

but we are forgotten like this song
of the wind, and in the emptiness

i can hear the faltering wave
fall against the belly of the sand

running like the white clouds
race through the sky,

where the stars fall like old ruins,
this ghost dance of stars, these crashing,

crashing waves. where is the freedom
of the falling water?

not in the breath of the earth,
not in the silvering of the sea.

songs of wild skies
where the sea’s ghosts
gather wave and mist,
where the dark sea
drifts and the wind
scatters petals
curves the rushing
of a tide that longs
to be free, waits
waits forever to
dream.

i.

spring's grey moons
everything is still
the hush of the skies.


ii.

first new buds
white cloud of hawthorn
morning's broken ghosts.

iii.

strengthening sun,
iron and feathers sky,
bird like a speck.

iv.

blue edge of sky
sunlight on flashy wings
empty world.

v.

clouds of drowning white
blowsy sweetened breeze
tall grasses sway.

vi.

last winter gust,
shadow on the earth
song of the rain.

vii.

surreal morning tide
hurrying wave
kiss for my love.

viii.

sea-spray hits a sail
anchor lowered down
ropes thrown to shore.

spring sings her new song, and the hail and the frost and the pretty flowers open all their windows and doors. my poetry lay dormant as the winter wind. as the last storm and gust carries the poetry to a new morning, love finds me, love finds me.

i.

spring's grey moons
everything is still
the hush of the skies.

ii.

first new buds
white cloud of hawthorn
morning's broken ghosts.

iii.

strengthening sun,
iron and feathers sky,
bird like a speck.

iv.

blue edge of sky
sunlight on flashy wings
empty world.

v.

clouds of drowning white
blowzy sweetened breeze
tall grasses sway.

vi.

first spring gust,
shadow on the earth
song of the rain.

vii.

surreal morning tide
hurrying wave
kiss for my love.

viii.

tide going out
seaweed-covered rocks
cry of a gull.

ix.

sea-spray hits a sail
anchor lowered down
ropes thrown to shore.

the sky leans into me,
wild-flower and moss hide
in small crevices.

i feel all the freedom of a
woodland flower,
every bright inch of my being

blossoming from the stem.

the clouds rush in little rivers
their whites billowing like shirts on a
washing line, small temples of god.

i think of you, and every
muscle remembers my love
while you dream of the sea.

blossoms of ink,

the sighs of
spring's new
leaves looped
around the
sky,

the land filling
with the gold
arch of the sun,
white flowers
on the branches,
the ground
strewn with ivy
and green moss,

mute sun rests
in the sky,
the light pretty
joys painted in
the mind, pale
whispers of
shiny white,

gorgeous sea,
sings to
the soft flowers,
the waves start
to blossom,
blossom like
the boyish wind,

or drive on forever
like singing
rain.

stars, the softest
prints, the watercolours
of the night, washed
in a rich green sea,
shining like prisms,
forgetful as the shadows of the moon
bold, restful bridge of the tide.

the stars lie on the water,
shimmer as night bleeds
all its blacks like a dark root,

summer’s yellows are now
forgotten, darkness chisels
water and sky,

blossoms stony and grey
like a colossal and
beautiful flower.

stars weeping their golds,
the tide whispering
in shadowy pools,
accepting our love.

the sky's flowers are the
february stars that brood
like a crashing sea.

moon against moon,
the indigos of the night
wind and unwind.

who listens when the
bright beams tremble?

who listens to the grey night's
powerful song?

the sky's flowers are the
slow river of clouds that
flow away from me,

little paper islands
puffed out like chinese lanterns.

only the stars and the
clouds and the moon,

the boughs beneath, withered
and gaunt, start to dream...

the night’s stones weigh
heavy like the cloud.

everything sinks.

the cry of a bird like
the shiver of a stream,
water-thick, eerie as
a ghost.

the heady scents of the night
speak of surrender,
of lost horizons,
of windows flung
open to the stars.

a cat wires his claws to the
dark, drops down from a wall,
lands with his fur full of sky.

"where the sun smoothes the dust-dry earth"  

the summer is not poetic,  
what is there in the gold
of the sun to write about?
just the heat and the stones
washed flat.  
the signs say you can't swim.
everything has stopped.  
there is no music in the air,
the mornings shrill and hum,
the afternoons drowse with beer.
is the ocean going to wake for me?
will it dance like a flower?  
along the dust black roads
the tarmac starts to sweat.  
torn open the thundering roads,
there is no poetry in them either.  
everywhere there are green leaves
and little drops of peace in the shade.

the summer
melts into corners
and doors, unsettles
its ghosts.

the flowers blush
and burgeon, wild
grasses blow in the
wind.

the sun shrinks the
land, blasts the heathers
with their purple blooms.

everything seems to
be blossoming, the clouds,
the sky, even our love.

the sun, bold as an eagle,
stretches its wings,

the summer is like a
lizard basking in the
brightening light,

it is like a mid-day dancer
drowsy with the
flowers of day,

the pools of shadow
purr like a cat, yearn for
a cooling saucer of milk.

daughter of the light,
the whispering sea
carrying the wind like
a bird of air,
the water ageless and eternal,
dark as a winter cloud,
light as a summer rose.

the forests of sun
lift their branches to the sky -
a stone fountain's tears.

the sun an arc of
flowering orange,
kiss me
as i have never been kissed.

summer’s petals
sink perfect, fall into dream

on their night-bed, soothed
by a purple dew,

honey-sweet, like the
drift of a cloud,

the night is a bird with
gorgeous wings while the

moon paces the world
like a garish cat.

summer has burned up,
blown past, the thermometer
sinks stone-like, its silvers
dulled in metal tombs
no longer spiking red.

the wet leaf hangs lower
on the twig, the bird balances
on the branch, the day
fragments, its grey clouds
flowing under swiftly
closed doors.

the summer’s great lizard hides
under a rock,

the summer sings of ending days, of
lonely horizons and crystal seas,

we smoulder in the sunshine
where the clouds flow in their

drifting streams, their ridges like
colossal ledges on the mountains

of the world.

a fiery heart,
the beating sun,
summer’s ghosts burning
and a lonely petal falls from the rose.

"where the night clouds ebb and flow like a tide"

the clouds roar their
thunder, balance
against the sky like a
set of scales
while the rain,
heavy and dreadful,
soaks the hot ground turning
the trickling stream back into
a buoyant wave chattering
to rock and silver leaf
of summer’s blossoming
dream.

the moon, shrunken, faint
as pencil, as if the wild nettles
of night carried her loads.
her glazes the raptures of
dancing stars.
her stencil mark a white crescent
leant on cloud.
the trees shudder in the
wind, break their promises,
forgive no one.  
the tide listens to her rhythms,
traps them in water, distils
her victories, unwraps the dark,
stretches it out.

lapping waves
the kiss of the water
the fire of the sun.

gold as the sinking sun
the cloudy sea,
burnt to the colour of autumn leaves,
floods with blue.

in a garden, slender with summer rose,
where the silvering petals
gathered whisky clouds and love,

the shadows smouldered
while the breezes built bridges of
leaves, in a darkening, near nocturnal world;

and i sat, marvelling at the pretty sunset,
at the shady boughs, at the gorgeous
sky in the fading light with its golds and blues

and i felt calm and settled, while the
sun grew smokey, burnt to ruin,
(in the soon ruined sky) dulling, nearly black.

the moon was chasing the shadows of the forest,
while the night scurried into the black fields,
placing a small toe into a sorrowful grey cloud
the wind hardly more than a whisper.

and then midnight unwound, blue shadows on grass,
the fields green as dark emeralds,
the clouds dreaming of a soft moon,
and the eye drawn skywards,

filled with forgotten dreams
the wind began to hurry
birds crammed into a bucketful of sky
like flapping pages hinged to a spine.

welcome then to the stomach of night
to moonflower and the bright light that spins
uncovering the stones that lie in the dark moss
revealing the surreal landscape to a broken moon.

welcome then to our love, even more surreal,
as we hold each other close, and shiver like
strange plants wrapped into the black ink of the night
as the world unfolds to kisses and wilderness.

sweet as our lips,
summer boy,

dream of blue stone,
as the night flows like a tide,

burgeoning like a drifting
cloud,

you are my boy of dream,
blossomed from water
and moon,  from crystal light -

i long for you
summer boy,

as the last stars vanish,
blunted like the hills.

sweet bird of budding april's pretty wing,
sat in the willow where the catkins grow,

enchanting like the river's winding flow,
small chatterbox that always loves to sing,

the blossoms kiss the sky whose wandering
finds vast crusades where fleeting warriors go,

true to their loves e'en in the bleakest snow,
or some princess who finds a sapphire ring.

enchanted lands, the bird sings in the tree,
so long forgotten once found near and far,
where streams wind yonder where the bluebirds play,

on honey branches by the windswept sea,
as if they whispered underneath a star
of princely gold the beauty of the day.

sweet day,
birds kissing
the air in
rapid flight.

we wait, stones
of the morning
sun

for the white
sky to
settle its clouds

ghosts of the
faint breeze
tremble the leaves.

it is still cold,

april peels its
skin like a snake.

forsythia lounges
with beech and
rhododendron
(shiny with waxy
leaves)
painting its
impressions on
the fainting world.

the trees stutter
weird and heavy
glowing in the
light.

sweet night, with
your summer blaze
and shoulder of dusk,

your wings fly up,
crave the sky, flung
into shadows, brooding

like the cattails in the pond,
your breezes are bright
domes, scented by the moon,
your clouds, hidden mirrors.

ta ma a la a na
my love for you is forever

tassa na aa aa aa ai ah
a sea that the storm starts to sway


ta ma nee a ma na sa ma nee
my eyes the colour of storm rose

ta stata ma no al la nee
my lips pink like a peony


ta ma ar aa aa aa ma ma
and as my eyes start to flutter

ta ma na da la oo ah la nah
the clouds all soft like the mist


ta ma na ah la na ah la me
i laugh at the song of your kisses

da sa ma ah la
surrender to bliss.

i’ve blown all my dosh
on a brand new Bosch!
my clothes will be super clean
with this amazing new machine
i’ve burnt all my dosh
singing swish, swash, swosh,
singing splish, splash, splosh,
a ladies got to wash!
i’m in love with my new Bosch!

the clouds storm and stir the horizon
and swoon like a sorrowful bird,

the sun sinks the same way once risen
and deafening the fires of his word,


a lover waits hopeless and dreary,
and hopeless and dreary departs

for love not returned leaves her weary
and breathful her heart.


a vision as clear as the ages,
that reach to the soul or the heart

the storm of the clouds broken cages
long gone those soft clouds that depart


and the sea strides to shore like a viking,
and rages eternal like cloud,

for the storm now is spent and surrenders,
that once stood so proud.


the sea she will wrap me in flowers
and drown me in ivies and wine,

as the sharp winter wind blows wild showers,
that bury the aches of the pines,


and the sea i found tender with rapture
blew me back where the ages relent,

and the sea gave me back all its flowers,
for the love never meant.


desire is no pastry or pudding,
it is death, it is life, it is naught,

in its rages it cries like a blossom
that bursts from the bough and is caught,


no lover could rule or control me,
but they begged and they begged
for my love,

and the love that i gave soon destroyed me,
a lion to the dove.


yet the sea dries my eyes from my weeping,
rejuvinates like vinaigrette,

and love never once won or departing
soon buries its soul in regret,


and the sea sings like a stereotyped lover,
too broody to throw out a rose

and the rose would be tearful my lover,
seas sea e'en froze.


for the sea is a viking of passion,
strange ghost of the wind and the wave,

and knows nothing of love or compassion,
but will leave you with the dark that can't save,


i see her in the **** frost, her blossom,
the waves that still billow like sails

the foam the blue foam near the flotsam,
her song a soft silvery scale.

the colour of stars,
blue inks,
strange excitements,
beating wings,
a shadowy sea.

petals of the wind,
like lilies unfolding
in the water.

it was me who destroyed carthage of the ancient worlds in 1300bc. the way i destroyed carthage was this. my mother was a persian queen and carthage wanted persia destroyed. my mother did not want her husband killed so she sent me, her eldest child, to the war. i told them that if they looked into my right eye they would think it was very beautiful but if they then looked into my left eye, which was my most beautiful eye, for i was left-handed, even as most creative people are even back then, they would notice it was even more beautiful.
i then said if i wanted to be a little kind to them they would want to be very very kind to me. they liked me and tried to show me their great kindness but the truth was that they had been so unkind to their children with bad magics involving rings that they died instantly. that is how i destroyed carthage.

drowning, drowning under,
these voices loud as thunder,
the dragon and the tiger,
the hermit and the miser,
twist the paths of fate.

the devil was my brother,
he took me to the river
where the waters flow forever,
beside the laughing heather,
a river full of hate.

the dragon said; "i'll burn you."
the tiger said; “i’ll maul you.”
the hermit said; “i live on my own.”
the miser said; “i won’t give you a loan.”

the devil was my brother,
he threw me in the river
where the waters flow forever,
beside the laughing heather.

drowning, drowning under,
these voices loud as thunder,
i watched the laughing heather,
while the river flowed forever
and my soul was filled with hate.

  i shouted to my brother;
“devil be ******.”
“i am ******,” he replied,
“like the river of hate
  and my sister need best understand

the hell that flows forever,
beside the laughing heather.”
“but i am your sister,” i cried.
“i am the devil,” he softly replied.

the fires of an august sun,
the leaves a dream  
of shadows.

none of the head angels liked looking
after the flowers. there was never enough
water in heaven for them.

then ian dream remembered:

go under the meadow
over the wave

you will arrive at station 4
press the blue button
and the flowers will automatically
be watered.

tea the angel rushed to try it out.
he pressed the blue button
and the springs for the flowers flowed.

the flowers in heaven started singing
with happiness and it was so beautiful
everyone cried.

a yellow rose winds to the skies,
blossoming, letting soft petals fall to
the cidery earth, blushing in
the caverns of the sweet-flowering day,

inspired like the greek
sun-god helios but
drawn out of rhododendron
and apple, drawn out of love.

a thousand years of summer,
the wolf, the thin mouth of sky,
a diamond bumble bee, the
gifts of a stolen sun,

shaken out like a rattle snake,
the broken angles of death,
the lost side of each word,
with all its intentions and promises -

fallen to the floor, like an apple,
or a blind mole loving
the soil, the dry earth,
the faded parchment sun,

or a rock of ice, in a tangy glass,
where the summer sun
grows roots and shoots,
shadow domes and leafy golden skies.

the ghost of the moon,
a sky of dark oaks,
its blacks deep cauldrons
breaking like twigs underfoot
its blacks tragic horizons
where the clouds stretch and dissolve.

like stars, her eyes following the path,
time moulded into its caves
the sky with its sapphire-mooned dome,
the rustling trees where the fast
wind swore and shook each crooked branch

here beyond the houses and the well-kept lawns,
the low walls and scrolled iron gates
the sounds of the night a bat’s wing,
the sagging wind gusting, smoke
peppering the sky from chimneys in a thin flame

or the jagged ice of a jaded moon
where the horses in the woodland
shook their manes, grey-eyed like
athene and her owl, untired as
a fog-spun sea, relentless and alive,

the trees and their ghosts around her
she held her breath, bare feet weaving
along the sandy track, dress flowing,
her arms covered in bracelets,
her lips, coral-pink, brushed in peppermint,

free to dream at last , eyes swallowing
the dark lines of the trees, hanging the dusk
from her eye lids, singing of the sweetness
of the night and its ragged clouds,
the raw dust of the moon.

her dreams were blue pools, the night
with its midnight leaves, her
heart longed to be free, to wander
through the trees as wild as the
horses with their stone-like manes

and sweeping metal hooves, brushed
with the inks of the sky in the shadowy
woods where everything was still but
not still, where the moonlight carved
its name in the woken tree.

awake my love! oh, don't be weary-eyed
and hearken to my lover's serenade,
i'll take you to the dryad's mossy glade,
leave slumber like a mist upon the tide.
i'll whisper secrets in your moonstruck ear,
declare my passion in the midnight hours,
where fairies hide beside the milky flowers
and i'll be tender for i hold you dear.
we'll sit where moonlight glimmers in the trees,
drink honey mead and toast the balmy night
and you will find enchantment and delight,
oh, how i'll love you, how i'll laugh and tease.
the stars will guide us shining in the deep;
awake my love! awaken from your sleep.

the temples built of gold, silks finely spun,
a song of palaces in babylon,
where mede's daughter pined beneath the sun,
for mountain streams and hills to walk upon.
before the persians let the city fall,
great babylon held asia to the east,
the hanging gardens near the mighty wall,
their history told by an ancient priest.
if herodotus added to his tale,
he lent to grandeur with a poet's tongue,
a vision by euphrate's winding vale,
the river flowing where his story sung.
nebuchadnezzar built to please his queen,
to bring her trees and vines of verdant green.


amytis - daughter of king medes.
king nebuchadnezzar 2nd - built the gardens
herodotus - greek historian from ionia.

where the breeze blows
more softly than
a river flowing to the sea,
where my heart hums
its strangest melodies.

the moon glows brightly
her corners smudged
at the edges,

night drinks from a holy well,
a cavernous black sinks
into the dark lakes of the skies,

sinks further and further
autumn is awakening
loosening her hair
that falls in a golden net,

the first leaves crackle
in smokey knots,

sink beneath
the honeys of an
autumn sky,

lost in the woods
that start to trickle in a
stream of fiery gold
from branch to floor,
where the stars
still sing of the last spells
of summer.

the night frosted in silver,
shadows and moons,
iron ghosts stretching
into the darkness,
unravelling the song
of the tide.