Monday, 11 May 2009


neglecting a duty
to myself
writing poems
on scrap paper
throwaway dribblings
some bits stick
together and become
a river or an ocean
or starters for the fire
amongst lists and lyrics
somebody's number and
the great new idea

hurry up wind
bluster away
clear this pedestal
of all these ink serpents
knock me out cold
this volume is closing
the tea house draws nearer
cloaked crier is calling
hurry up wind