To Partner #2, not worthy of a name

i overheard you in the gallery
disparaging my work

you said the colours of my pallet
all have a shipwrecked hue


say it to my face

i was scuppered by you
you, my treacherous mate
who swore such loyalty

I thought I had forgiven you
my mistake
i hate you in my sleep

I see you very clearly now
but i can still paint clouds
that let the sun break through



how lovely it would be
to be a lemon tree
and change from green to yellow
and offer up my sourness to the sun
how lovely it would be
to be a lemon tree
stretching slender arms toward the sky
lemon has a zest that’s never sweet
how lovely it would be
to be a lemon tree in Barcelona

Fragile Dust (a tritina)

like lace these fragile flapping wings,
new born from the chrysalis, pale butterfly
drying under a yellow sun, bright burning

full of life, vibrant, short lived, time burning
stretching out its virgin wings
clinging to a tender stem, this butterfly

climbing upward to your journey, butterfly
prepare to fly away, as I, burning
with desire to touch, with care, your wings

an awful thought, lost dust, wings burning, butterfly


There is a beautiful meadow of buttercups.
They catch the light of the sun.
I want to lay down amongst them
and strip right down to the skin
to feel the breeze and the air
and feel a full flood of life.
There is no-one around to care.
But when i draw closer to them
I see the electric fence.
The buttercups need defence
from a barbarian soul like mine.

The Oak

where to go
when i am lost
i know i knew
it’s somewhere there,
beneath the oak

when the rain fell
though the leaves
i heard them splash
and felt refreshed,
shaded by tranquility

shelter still beneath the sun
green light filters
reaching branches high above
reaching always for the light

clear bright veins within the leaf
an open palm, resembling mine


lost in the land
where the grass is always greener
on the other side

they wander about,
plucking at this and at that,
never satisfied

the next will taste better
the herbs they select will be sweeter
the sun will reveal all the last light belied

to sit in a field ,
under one tree
and see how it changes,

how day becomes slowly night,
would bring a more lasting delight
through sunsets and dawns.

cold winds may blow and the sun grow hot
there may be storms,
and the leaves will fall.

without sun and rain there’s no rainbow
the pot of gold is right here




Farewell to Summer

we look to the future of warm winter fires
farewell to sweet summer, before long to return
the hedgerows are full of the fruits of the sun
we sowed in good trust and reap what we earn

John Barleycorn, he must die once again
we harvest the grain for the threshing floor
returning the first gifts to bless the land
it is the time to give thanks for our winter store

Queen of the Horses


In golden silks and brocades I appear,
on a horse so white he gleams in the night,
the horse that pulls the high sun in its course,
is mine, in this fertile land, shedding light.

Pwyll sent his horsemen in pursuit of me.
For two days and nights we ran, while they tired,
my stallion never lengthened his stride.
Pwyll the Prince of Dyfed, a man admired,

came out to hunt me, through the wild lands,
I fled him, ahead of his pleading words.
I delighted in the thrill of the chase
and stopped for the solemn promise I heard.

I had come to this place to possess him
but I am never so easily won.
I rebuked him for the harm to his horse.
To wed the Prince of Dyfed I had come.

My name is Rhiannon, of the horse, the land
and the moon. Queen of the Horses, riding,
mother of the lost one, later returned.
Three mystical birds fly with me, hiding.

I come from that Otherworld, fairer far,
my fathers domain, the deepness of seas,
Find me in the wind that runs in the grass.
I shimmer on waters surface in breeze.

When you stand on the high, ancient, hills
where the wind whips and tugs at your hair,
when you see the breath of a horse on cold air,
beneath and between, I am there.

The Bones They Talk (a terzanelle)

in whispering voices, the bones, they talk
through the rolling curving lines of the land
they lead me gently, unconscious I walk

on the moss covered stones I rest my hand
to feel their quiet presence lingering there
through the rolling curving lines of the land

in the haunt of the fox, home of the hare,
where all is as it was before, I come
to feel their quiet presence lingering there

guided by moonlight, stones, spiral and sun
I walk the path of the ancestors bones
where all is as it was before, I come

to the place of the barrow, long dark homes,
with lasting respect for all that they knew
I walk the path of the ancestors bones

the stones they placed and the ancient ditches
where the blackthorn at dawn sparkles with dew
inform me still of their deepest wishes
with lasting respect for all that they knew


All windows locked, no door, no sanctuary,
no hopes, no kindness, all dreams your nightmares
in this world, of your creation, only you
spreading your despair

Locking loveliness away with bitter hate,
dread fate, you hover over me, a demon.
Is this the best that you can find to hurt me?
I have my own mask

Masked and silent, with my stomach clenched in fear
I fly a million miles away, never near.
You shut me in a darkened room, I vanish
I wear my own wings

You cannot reach inside my mind, never will.
There is a light you can’t extinguish. It burns,
buried under night, it glimmers softly still.
I have my own light

You mistook me long for one who cannot see.
I know you, I see you struggling in your hell.
I cannot help you, break the spell or reach you.
I can’t set you free

I will go from here one day. I’ll forget you.
You’ll remember how I tried to bring you light.
No doubt you’ll see that as a greater torment.
I won’t be haunted

When I escape, the sun will shine the brighter
in a world that’s new to me, reborn from dark,
clearer, stronger, its definitions sharper.
This is not defeat.