my answer was always going to be no
all of my instincts said i must go
dreams are not only a thing of the night
you didn’t express it, when i was there,
when i was in pain, you were so scared,
but our purpose in life
is to travel and grow
come out from that blanket
breathe in the air

darling just shine!
look at the light


Winter Witch

Asleep in my arms, an angel,
or am I sleeping, in a dream?
The smell of her soft hair enfolds me,
drowns me, holds me,
emboldens me to think she’s real.
Deep in my dream she pushes, rolls me,.
A hot spark rushes,
entwines my spine,
a strong tender warmth, in the dark.
Every move she makes, a stroke,
a touch that tells me she is mine.
Her gripping thighs press hard against me.
My mind explodes. I’m on fire.
Our passion steams up the windows
and still desire doesn’t tire.
I love her in ways my words never tell.
Her breath on my neck, a bewitchment,
I’m spinning under her spell.
She is wild as rushing water,
she sweeps me home and away.
When the rapid falls are over,
she reaches out for again.
She is drenching rain.
She lays beside me,
slumbering in sensual rest,
contented beneath my hand.
I am her first dry land.
The snow outside is piling high.
White blankets wrap up the door.

Sunday With My Mother

She wanders in and out of dreams
and cannot tell the difference.
The people of the night, it seems,
create the day’s agenda.
She follows phantoms down the path
wherever they may send her.
Old houses merge into this house,
old friends, in throngs, attend her.
The door is gone that once stood there,
the chairs misplaced,
the rooms askew,
and only I defend her.
The cellars vanished in the night,
everything is turned about,
she does not know the reason.
Old age has finally found her out,
this is the final season,
but laughter, when I find the way,
battles this confusion.
I feel sad but make her smile.
It beats the blackguards from our gates
and brings some respite, for a while,
and frees me from illusions.

It’s a Circus

When Toulouse Lautrec tried to paint them he woke each morning to find his canvas was blank. Hardly surprising, given the nature of the Circus of Dreams. They are restless and always move on.

You may ask why there is a door that seems to lead nowhere.

Even the Master of Ceremonies wonders about that from time to time and the fact that he can’t discover the answer is beginning to irritate him, just a little, after 150 years.

The dancers don’t let it bother them much, though it sometimes confuses their entrances and exits to and from the stage.

But the show must go on! – or at least they all presume that it must – so they perform every night whether there is an audience or not. If the whole thing ends in chaos who cares.

They dance! And that’s what REALLY matters.


Circus of D2_001cropped

Telling Fairy Tales

bedtime stories are a door
between day and nightly dreams
a door held open by a voice
swinging in softly imagined breeze
that blows in from a magic land
scented sweet with jasmin and juniper,
and roses for summer warmth
they lull a child to gentle sleep
on banks of woodland flowers
and keep them safe to wander there
until the sun returns

when we are grown the stories fade
our troubles follow at night
in corridors we search for doors
shadows swallow the light
but now I will return again
to find the forgotten tales
that lead us to the faerie glades
where pleasant dreams are made

A Poets Gift (written when I was told to advertise)

I offer air and dust
a gift not lightly given
sealed tight inside a beating heart
and gathered by my eyes
dust is dust of mother earth
the ground you stand upon
with the very air you breathe
that bears an angels wings
disguised against the sky

this gift I bring
has never cost me anything
but a wandering mind
that haunts my nightly dreams
to find sweet beauty in the dark
and plays at hide and seek
through real, unreal and in-between
to find a spark divine

the words are never mine
they’ve all been used before
that’s how a poet lives
our store is hand to mouth
like beggars on the street
whose worth comes with no price
we search to find our sight
the work is not complete

A Bards Lament

did we survive so long in hardship
with arrow, quiver, toil and song
to reach a place, where all’s forgotten,
no honour held in memory,
of how they worked to make us strong?
I remember some of them

my family fought for generations
for a cause we know is just
we rose, we fell, we rose again
our banners both of air and dust

the tales i know will pass away
unwritten in the ancient books

were our dreams so misbegotten
that we face a future here
where nature’s treasures are befouled
and horrors rob this lovely place?

virtue’s lost and hides its face
in sorrow for a world held dear

dust to dust
air to air


tell me your dreams and tell me them true

tell me of days when you were a child

i need to better remember you

when it all comes round again in a while


tell me your hopes, tell me your fears

tell me the paths of your ancestral home

tell me your journey through the long years

let our lives link wher’ver we may roam


meet me again on the other side

reborn again, a boy and a girl

stars will cross and circles collide

when we awaken anew to this world


we will be young, but we can be wise

let me see love again shine in your eyes



Old House

The trees outside stand sentinel
above the rain-shine rooves.
This house is old and stands alone
High up on a hill.
The rooms are full of photographs,
books lined upon the shelves,
twice read or waiting still,
some with shattered spines.
The carpets, worn,
by thirty years of passing feet
are faded by the sun.
Notebooks filled with dead ideas
and some of them begun.
Dark wood and walls washed white
contain this quiet place.
A painting of a tired knight
dominates the space.
Dreams are always real.