gazing
at a basket full
of lemons
after one more
disappointment

the hills
in a mist of rain
softly
the truth spoken
in quiet glances

a line of trees -
beyond the fifth the world becomes
uncertain
starting a journey
on a winter day

blown to us here
in our safely sheltered bay
the sound of waves
crashing against rocks
further down the coast

even though I know
that we may never meet
I hope
my words might touch you
as yours have touched me

even though I know
that spring follows winter
after all these years
the blossom comes as
such a sweet surprise

can't think of
anything we have
in common
a white bird
in sunlight

passing through
the town where
we first met
the pale stone darkened
by warm spring rain

a moth
from the shade
of a curtain fold
the memory
of last night's dream

the evening sun
shimmers
in a child's paddling pool
some kind of thirst
that can't be quenched

this sense
of something missing -
the place
where the mirror
used to hang

just a dream
that faded as dreams do
but halfay
through the day a sense
of something special lost

a hot wind
through the long grass
whispering
to the dark green
shadow of a man

in the wavering light
of a candle lit much earlier
familiar words
begin to take on
different meanings

old diaries
in my desk drawer
I'm surprised to find
there are things
that still surprise me

Easter moon
at the front door
but the garden
is lit by
the evening star

after
the sound of our voices
the rain
falling quietly
into the night

at last
understanding
that summer has gone
the way a leaf falls
on a windless day

heavy clouds
pass over without rain
we talk
deliberately
of other things

words
I never said
to you
the song of a bird
in a bitter wind

moonlight
on waves
the ebb and flow
of the sea that joins
your island to mine

waking
from one more dream
of your absence
I reach out to touch
the shadow of leaves

news
of a pre-emptive strike
out of the night
the clank and rattle
of a heavy chain uncoiling

a flock of starlings
bank and turn above
the setting sun
the one whse course I chose
to follow veers away

recalling your silence
as I pass through a valley
full of mist
I wish that I could
lose myself in it

closing
the bedroom window
to keep out
the new coolness
I turn on the radio

the chain
that joins the white boat
to the sea
drawn to it but then we stand
uncertain on the margin

sun
on the sea between
dark clouds
the tiredness in your eyes
even as you smiled

frost
on dry leaves
brittle with age
the gentlest touch
can break the skin

the accusation
in your voice as we exchange
polite evasions
the lingering bitter taste
of so many unsaid things

watching
the storm tossed trees
through glass
afraid to let myself go
where the wind would take me

its no use
asking them to stop
they're pitiless
trees in blossom
in the park

older now
I dream that you still
sing to me
and that I write
poems for you

a few words
with a stranger passing
on this road
everyday precious things
are scattered in the wind

a ring
around the moon
tonight
missing something that
was never mine

dreamed of him
again last night
that man
whose face
I never see

for years now
he's been pretending
it's too late
to do the things
he should have done

Mutus Liber

something in the turn
of his head seen from
a distance
in his eyes
before he speaks

catching
a sideways glimpse
of the winking out
even the stars
are mutable

before he said a word
I knew him, and do still
and always will
the way he raised his hand
as if to emphasise the point

the final stroke
of a church clock
echoing
things left
unspoken

conversations
lost in morning mist
but the unsaid things...
much older
than the hills

between the lines
something shimmers
like first light
on the pages
of an open book

having fallen
all that we can do is
hope
that we can
learn to fly

a flash
of lightning then
the long wait
for the cormorant
to resurface

pale blossom
swirled by a chill wind
in the rose beds
the deeper red of summer
held tight within the bud

another day
has passed
without a word
I trim the dry fronds
from a boston fern

a small shell
from another summer
spirals around
what used to be
a secret sanctuary

I would have
given
anything
but you chose
freedom

windscreen wipers
brush aside the evening rain
some things
that will never be
forgotten

tattered remnants
of something caught up
in the wire
the no-man's land
beyond caring

on the telephone
we talk of
email
how easy it is
to hide behind words

you tell me
all your news and that
you're happy now
in a tone of voice
I hardly recognise

the winter sun
enough to melt
a hard frost
why do useless attachments
last for a lifetime?

looking out
of an old photograph
my younger self
gives me a coolly
disapproving stare

outside
a bird is singing without
pause for breath
and still I hesitate
over what to say

the way
his hair falls -
for a moment
I forget
his age

the early daffodils
were beaten to the ground
if I could only
give up hope then I could
give up disappointment too

shirtless and white skinned
in the first real heat they carry
Asda bags of beer
through the haziness
of a city-centre park

halfway
through the last day
the dull sky darkens
towards the end
of a year of endings

first night
under the winter quilt
dreaming
of someone dreaming
of someone else

winter almost over
I rewind the film to see
the whiteness
of the actor's costume
up against the skin

waking
from a dream of flying
I wonder
what I might have left
behind upon the earth

the most casual
of gestures can betray
a tenderness
so strong it almost
pierces the heart

it never lifted me
too high - an inch at the most
just a lightness
a welcome counterbalance
to relentless gravity

if I had wings
I would land
in a flurry of feathers
on your lawn
one sunset

when you
came to see
what caused the sound
I would gather you up
in a feathery embrace

I would
carry you away
over the hills
across the borders
to a land between

in a place so strange
a girl with wings
would come alive
because you could
believe in her

when I brought you
home
I would beat my wings
like birds do
when coming in to land

I was falling
but someone caught me
and brought me
ever so gently
back down to earth

If I could share it with you
breaking it
by hand
if necessary
bread would do

a summer shower
shivering the surface
of the sea
and all the colours
darken in the rain

their argument
ends in silence
beside the war memorial
a sparrow perches
on the stone lion's ear

writing on eggshells
recording words on skin
with a finger tip
across the misted
window of a train

the sun
and moon and stars
are all just pictures
in a children's
story book

a leaf
in autumn, drying out
takes on a twist
that reminds me
of a wry smile

something's missing
but maybe I will find it
even yet
spring sunlight
on old stones

dear muse
even in the dark hours
the bird
you awakened
is still singing

at 50
much to my surprise
my muse
takes on a definitely
human shape

the pauses
in her side
of the argument
we pass through Sheffield
under a steely sky

I want to take
this crude ache and twist it
bend it, force it
into a shape so exquisite
that I can make a gift of it

wanting
and not wanting
to know
how the story
ends