Dawn light,
sharp and bright,
how dare you come all creeping
to touch me curled and sleeping
in the bed on which I lay,
go away,
I am not ready for your play,
we can dance a little later
when the morning turns to day

The poet inside me sleeps,
curled up in the nut he rests,
perhaps he has died
and he lies, stiff and cold,
I do not think he is no more,
the occasional snore can be heard
a tumbling phrase or sybillant vowel
escape his lips,
errant ships that pass,
otherwise he lies
a dormant beast, waiting for spring
and the filtered sunshine that his words might bring

Humble greetings all
we rise or fall
upon the swords which are our words
steel of critics teeth to edge the blade,
a thousand stings and stabs
or gentle and much softer blows
which fortune falls upon the writers head
is not for us to tell,
what literary hell awaits
who knows

Peace,
a blissful moment of release
is it an object
a concept
or a verb,
or is a little note on your head
that says, do not disturb
is it in a garden,
filled with things you grew yourself
or does it come in shopping
and a bursting wardrobe shelf,
you decide,
there is only one of you that resides
and sometimes hides in that place inside

Close the door
slip the latch and let it fall
I am sad to say farewell
but I must leave you all,
imagine me at peace
freed from earthly things,
I am the autumn breeze
a winter wind that sings,
I am rain, I am sky,
a part of everything,
we did not say goodbye,
I am summer, I am spring
blossom, light as air,
don't think of me as gone
look around and I’ll be there

On a velvet night,
so silent and heavy
that the breath of life itself seemed an intrusion,
Vincent smiled and bid the world goodbye,
he closed his eyes
and left to join the landscape of his paintings

Mysterious girl
the snowdrop child,
buried in spring, etched in stone
in a churchyard corner she sleeps alone,
many greedy winters have gobbled up her name
she was never an enigma
because we loved her just the same