the anthropocene

always she turns
our lidless lambent orb
our pebble smoothed rock
untethered in a noiseless night
purling weightless with the stars

our halcyon mother
wakes to this new dawn
feeling her seed has soured
her waters not so sweet
in a muddied turn of the tide

but her drift through time
with a billion other brilliances
holds endless transformations
a turn of new pages
a shine of new light

autumn wood

the quiet must be heard
an arboreal stillness
oaks in meditation standing sentinels
in their frosted amber crust
a misted radiance in the morning blaze

we must listen
as the leaves listen
carrying their messages from the wind
rippling through the mildewing trees
to the edge of the wood

have we lost the drift of the sun
forgotten how the shade falls
where the gauzy moss grows
as the pheasant rasps
in our coming turn to winter

fitzroy’s warning

it rains
little wet whips on the pane
percolations of thought
struggling to find their downward path
blurring the silent adagio dance
of blackthorn leaf and limb
blown by welkin’s bellows
around the warm grey comfort of home

it rains
gales fore-warned
with mellifluous distant words
absorbed by souls away from shore
fretful of boiling cauldrons to come
forties, cromarty, forth
wretched pernicious seas
holding fast their hope for harbour