The path

The path I walk without youcoveredin broken glassat its endmy scarred solesgreet the grassas I walkthe last stepsto where you waitat the centreof the fieldroaringwith dandelions

Spring

Spring primrosessplashes of paintfrom the prised openrusted tins of lightswung by the head-rushed Sun daffodilscrowds of cyclopesraising the chrome yellowof their periscopessurveying to seethe extent of the world’sexpectancy bluebellsraising their lightersfrom the rubbleof the forest floorhold their blue flamesabove their own gravesbow the smouldering stubsof their headsto ignite the soil songbirdsfrothing with songtides tugging a …

Dusk

Dusk our crumbled callousesdrifts with the birdsongupon the fumes of the dark bruised by the blushpigeons coo like frogsafter years of singing lessons fill the hollowness of their feathersnot thin their throatsto just before bursting prayers not fortunes tightly scrolledtied to the chipped roseof their mangled feet standing upon the tipsof their missing toesdive into …