I love to sit in this courtyard

I love to sit in this courtyard
At a certain time before closing
Gulls squall for the briefest of moments
But we are so far from the sea
So far from home

Book of Hours

Start again the Book
Start again
To gaze
Pass the glass
Open eyes
To Time
Falling like sand
Through tired fingers
[Hourglass it is filling]
Slip away
My Love
[Before it is too late]
Behold Aloneness
In the mirror
And see
[The image of God]

I dreamt it was possible to lose you

I dreamt it was possible to live empty handed
And to have no hold
Never to behold
No one to fold into myself to become whole

I dreamt I saw Love's ghost last night
Wondering
Wandering across Heart's vast plane

I listened but there were no words
Just the sweeping of longing in the aching wind

retrospect

colours faded
carpets worn
threadbare emotions
hang like curtains
no longer able
to keep out the cold

markers bob
on the deep sea
the break water
the island
the sailing boats
and naval ships

birds dart
the headland beckons
the horizon calls
and the sun keeps
breaking through
the chill of the clouds

Two strong swimmers
in tandem
cut through
the dark waters
and return shimmering
to the shore

Photo that inspired the poem by John Larkin

the sound ...

of emptiness within the sound of sirens, the wind stirred trees, the creaking of the house and the heart therein
the sound ...
of silence within each worded moment - let it bring you to the verge of ...
tears

They sent me away

They sent me away, they did, smiling and waving, few provisions in my sack, no compass, save the flickering stars

And what a night it was, howling moaning wind whispering through every part of my poor aching body

Speaking softly and slowly a prayer from an ancient book: Help me, O LORD my God: O save me according to thy mercy* …

And there it was, just the fact of a sole figure moving into darkness and the vastness of space

*Psalm 109:26

What will become of me ...?

What will become of me?

Of them?

Of us?

Of you who are reading this?

What will become of the blood and the bones that we hope will last when natural beauty has faded?

What will become of love not expressed, not returned, never seen the light of day? 

And love that is, that was, that basked in the shining sun?

What will become of the ones that could not be saved?

And of the ones that were plucked from the raging seas?

Winning or losing .... 

The world turns and turn we do in spinning space

And turn we must upon the perilous knife-edge of choosing