Category Archives: Nature

Hammer

You can hear it, the rain:

not the usual pattering but

each drop driven like a

nail, the sky a

dark hammer.

Feather

The tiny grey-brown feather—the

breast feather of a small

passerine bird, probably a

sparrow, of which many

roost in the neighbour roof—

seemed to float with no wind.

 

The fall of my foot

first brought it to my

attention, but now I was

unnaturally still, and still the

feather moved with no wind.

 

Perhaps it was my breath,

clenched though it was and

nearly six feet away, that

floated the feather?

 

I felt at once

powerful and

powerless, my soul

 

suddenly reduced to the

size and weight of a

 

feather with no wind.

Shadow Pleasures

Shadow Pleasures

Some sort of

ghost of me still

finds pleasures in

the shadows.

Confusion between Dark and Light

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There’s a confusion between

dark and light in Autumn,

sharp sunshine sometimes

warming my face, then a

sharper shower, laundry

drying in the breeze

suddenly scooped in,

something soothing on the

stove smelling

sweet and strange, my

hands hesitating to

draw the curtains while the

sky is still coloured-in and there

remains one last

glimmer of the day.

Wisps Of Taste

To the West wisps of cloud

reflect the langorous

vapours of a last cigarette, while

to the East the Moon rises

like the cream on an

Irish Coffee in which I can

taste, beneath the caffeine, the

smoke of peat, of

earth alight in the

wisps of whisky.

Dimensia

Since childhood I’ve felt

objects approaching me

unbeckoned but

indisputably on a

collision course I somehow

cannot avert.

 

So many spillages,

so many apologies,

so many blushed replies because

this is England after all and

spillages are assumed to be the

fault of both parties.

 

Oh and I also trip over cables so

don’t let me anywhere near a

studio despite it being my

place of work.

Inside/Outside

External splendours

Am I inside or

outside? Should I

attend to the meal I

carefully prepared or

gawp at the clouds and that

further beyond that

beckons with a

crooked finger that

never points to anything

definite but

merely implies?

 

Pilgrim

I could, of course, still walk the

Pilgrims Way, just up the

hill from me, but I have

lost the will to go on

pilgrimage, or perhaps

hope, that intangible

something to pray for.

 

But then the bushes about me

blossom as always

come what may.

Frayed

Frayed Richard Potter

I’m frayed but

unafraid of being

battered by elements

as long as one

strand will bear my

bare footprints

long enough to be

seen before the

high tide comes.

 

(Photo with the kind permission of Richard B. Potter aka The Subtle Penguin on Twitter, and go see his lovely work)

A Tree Grows in Manchester

It’s raining again so it must be

Manchester and it’s late and my

tram also so I am

leaning against this tree in

St. Peter’s Square watching

late trams pass, their

cargoes tired (though

that girl is pretty even as

she yawns), when the

tree’s sap seeps through my

sodden shoulder making one

vein of brotherhood, one

lone tree bearing me,

lonesome and needing someone to

lean on, something

alive.

 

Your roots are tight-bound in an

iron grid bespeckled with butts

but you seem to thrive so

perhaps you like all this

noise and bustle, and maybe the

sap from shoulders seeping into your

tough veins, some

symbiosis of the city.

 

My tram hoots up from

Piccadilly, my cold bed calls.

Bud well, buddy, and thanks for

your support.

my controlled ascent

living and loving as a married submissive in my D/s marriage

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