February 23, 2010

Ramblings


The contouring grooves of ploughing sledges

That leave deep green margins at farm field edges,

Where in hedges, filled with the echoes of words,

The birds, they pluck fibre from herds.


A tattered tin trough where few think to drink water,

A ewe with twin lambs, her son and daughter

Soon due for the slaughter in late of June.

A bloom to be cropped on the harvest moon.


A swaying thistle that the winds will a whistle

Each spike, a whisker from a squirrels grey bristle

With bursting pockets of white fur lockets

Skipping out, rabbit tail cotton sock puppets

That sail where e’er the gales of air may wail,

They quiver along downs or down the long vales.


baby_lamb.jpg


November 04, 2009

A far off land

the beach a will return to on the south island of New Zealand.

A beach where I camped on the south island of New Zealand - I long to go back.


Soap Box


Soap Box


Small sparks and eyes splash out and burn tonight,

Flames halo the oak in ripples of light.

Earth has shrunk to the size of this small room

The blankets and walls, our refuge cocoon.

As pleats are pulled apart, stretching the thread,

We sink into a slice of mattress bread,

Tiptoeing warm around the velvet skin

A shivering canvas, fluttering thin.


Reams of pencil-sketched dreams draw curtains closed,

Colours blurred into what my mind composed.

Yawning night’s life away, breathe in breathe out,

Deep in my piece of mind there is no doubt.


Awaking to the waking of her son,

Cries for mum, she goes. All worry is gone.

Breathing, his chest rides up like tides to sand,

Blowing his troubles away, far off land.

Ceramic drains the bubbles off the soap,

As drought is to water, as life to hope.

Outside, the cratered face lights up the air

Forging a perfect sphere, no wear or tear.


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