Walked in like B flat
Slow music playing
Heels clicked like staccato
Dress cello imitating
Blue notes sunken
Drunken with the motion
Of the left right sway
Spin, dip, heads floating
River more than ocean
She never stands still
She don't shoot the breeze
Heart-breaker, shoot to ****
Then she transposed the thrill
B harmonic minor
Tango, stomp, clap
Somebody shot the dress designer.
Violence in the night
Gasoline on the floor
Swift step matchstick heels
She adores the
White
Light
Like coconut cream
Musicians bathe with the moon
Sleep with its beams
Play until the world
Seems to burst at the seams
Set fire to the rivers
Inhale the steam
Descend with the fifths
Never rest on a trill
Cut the drums, spotlight
Let her transpose the thrill

Those feet that once stood tall and proud
Under dark obsidian clouds,
Travel now once more upon
The hallowed grounds of Albion.
Through shrines and shires the Iceni ride
To the seat of ancient power,
Cross moors and mountains
Past marble fountains
To the steps of a Roman tower.
How they shall cower!
As Boudicca comes spear in hand.
They'll soon retreat,
Give up and leave
Back to their promised land.

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath -
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.

Today was thick and warm, swelling like a marshmallow
held over our summer campfire.
We slipped down the narrow, curving creek,
a run-on sentence near the page's waist
in the book you left lying open, face down,
on the night table.

The banks yawned up over our heads,
and sunflowers lined the cusp of the ridge
watching us, a silent yellow audience of earth
bound stars.
The paddle breaking the surface of the water
was the only sound, amplified by the miniature
valley we were conversing with.

The Garden

Paradise is lost
The sun is fallen
Truth is known
Yet its way is obscured
Bitter harvests now replace
Immaculate conception
And tears flow, from eyes
That willed to see
There is no victory in the outter realms
No reward in desolation
Oh to return from whence we have fallen
To taste of fruit unforbidden
The garden has grown barren
And its hedgerow high
Who can restore its splendor
Who is worthy
I know none…..