Poem: Queen of Autumn Sanctuaries


Queen of Autumn Sanctuaries –

What will you do now that your sovereignty

Has been displaced by a less sweet season?


Your season might be over – but your work is

Still in motion – posing unanswered thoughts

In the lullaby pulse of every burrowing creature


You do not like to work out in the open – you weave

Your secrets into neat little parcels,

Deposited underground

For safest keeping


Your kingdom is the happiness of jays;

The flight paths of swans in the lunar mist;

The roaring of the fire, in its tight iron cage,

Transmuting sadness into warmth,



Yours is not the regality of pomp and glory –

But the whispered glory of the small and

Hidden, hibernating in its own subtle beauty –

The half-heard majesty of the evening


This is why you love trees: not for their grandeur,

But for the way they enhance your smallness –

For you love anything that can miniaturize your

Frame, and enfold you in the gallantry of



Your palace is not turreted; but a pine cabin

In the woods. For, what need have you for a

Palace, when your kingdom dwells in a gallery

Of acorns, and the sustained tear fall of

Ice in the making?



Sweet Queen – though I can see you in the

Dolour of every yellowed elm; the escape

Of a squirrel’s tail – though I can hear you whispering

In unfinished manuscripts, and the mirk of sea-stained

Pages – still, I thirst for more than just traces, and the mad

Melancholy of boot-crushed berries


Invite me into your cabin –

Take off your veil –

Let us come face to face:


In the twilight of your kitchen;

In that perfect womb of cottag’d silence,

We will discuss the things that only we know,

And sing sweetly all that the mists only mutter


And against the shadow of all that furtively flutters,

The unsaid will be louder

Than the said




Poem: My Wings


It has been a cold morning.

Nethelweiss, The King of Frosts, has

Stretched his hands over the grass,

And turned all the plants and grounds

Of the land into palaces of sparkling



I closed my eyes, and I saw you:

Naked, crouched, in the middle of

A lagoon – pooled in oily darkness


But, for all that darkness, you shone

So brightly – how could you not be

Stirred from your tenebrous

Self-hatred by the heraldic majesty

Of your beauty?


I swam towards you; to hold you;

To be near you – you changed into

A crow; flew away – and what

I first thought was a rejection, was

An invitation to flight – an overture

To play


Up in the heavens, lands of pure energy,

We sparkled, and flew, and twisted as

Dragonflies, our wings beating out

Whirlwinds of pleasure, as we wove

Helices of love



But our eyes speak more

Than our tongues can say –

Ours is a friendship

Of poetry and silence:

Kneeling beside eachother

In prayer, in a sacred cathedral

Of pure sapphire, where no

Words can ever be spoken.


If only you knew how many journeys

I have gone on for you, my dear.

How many rivers I have washed my

Heart in, so I might be pure enough

To kneel beside you.


Let me be your angel – your guardian –

Your protector. Let me cocoon you in

My wings, and shield you from all of

Life’s Tortures. May your blows be my

Blows. May your pain be my pain. And

May your smile be the sunrise that

Lures me into every tomorrow.



Once said, these prayers cannot be unspoken.

And, in the light of a spell that cannot be broken,

My wings will be yours



Poem: Two Love Sonnets



If I hand you a chalice,

Will you drink of the wine pressed fresh from my heart?

A vintage free from taint or malice,

Though victim of Sadness’s envenomed dart,

Drink it up, my love, until exquisite inebriation,

Drives all coldness from your limbs,

And ignites the fires of your imagination,

Ensuring the prosperity of your most passionate whims!

Let me dapple your neck with crimson kisses,

So that your snowy skin may sip of the wine,

That inflames my days with unfulfilled blisses,

That I pray – I implore – will make you mine!

And as the liquor of my love pulses quick through your veins,

I know that, from my thoughts, you can ne’er be estranged.



My days are enriched with the paint of your palette,

That enrobes me with colours too vivid to bear,

Let me tend to your wishes like a well-trained valet,

Whose only salary is the want of touching your hair,

Unwitting, you keep me slave to your spell,

That addicts me to the promise of your absent perfume,

Drawn secret from Aphrodite’s love-philtre well,

Infused with the mead and the milk of the moon,

My nights are spent on a hot-bed of yearning,

Yoking my dreams to an envisioned paradise,

Found in a topography, ancient men of learning,

Claim can only be sought in the expanse of your eyes,

So, I look into those orbs, and stare and I stare,

At the rapture unbounded I see awaiting me there.








Poem: Visions of the Sea


By the sea with you

You are wearing an electric

Blue dress – the same color

As the storm, which, even now

Is conducting the sea outside our

Villa into a crazed anti-petrifaction

Of chaotic ferment


The curtains rail against the

Inside and outside of the villa,

Like opaque sheets of strung-up

Skin, searching for a skeleton to

Starve to death with the famine

Of perfect definition


But we are both too

Tired to pay tribute to

The storm – instead, we

Pay drunken courtship to

Morpheus, the god of Dreams,

Lying foetal, intersect, with one

Another, on the darkened couch,

Swaddled in lighting, tenebrous,

And escorted by the presence of

Invisible oneiric courtiers, whose

Nature can only be alluded to in

The snuffing out of candles, and

The jettisoning of empty

Treasure chests, which will

Sink to the bottom of the

Ocean, never to be found


I know I am happy

Because I am asleep

There can be no sadness

In sleep, until the horrorful

Bliss of dreams is washed away

By the screaming tides of sentience –

The crisis of an indestructible consciousness

That longs to be forgotten


We have both drunk too much –

My tuxedo is damp from laughter

And dancing – whilst your dress still

Covets the jealous outlines of your body,

Which your dreams will tear off, and your

Death put back on


If the champagne’s gone anywhere,

It’s taken us both with it – as I dream,

Lodged in the haven of your sleeping

Heart, I feel that I am out in the wrestling

Arms of that stormy sea, and you are the frail

Raft – my angel in three boards,

That keeps me from going under



You stir for a moment –

Your happy, drunken lids

Obliterate me with their

Favour; your gaze, lopsided,

Trying to emerge from

A liquor-soaked nervous

System, still a million

Miles from synchrony


In the phantasmagoria

Of that half-waked moment –

Can these loveless lips borrow

That semi-conscious kiss from

The future, if I promise to

Dutifully return it once time

Crystallizes it into reality?


I can feel it all so fully,

So sensuously, so lucidly,

So urgently


But I am not in that

Storm-girt room with you –

Only in the stifling room of

My sadness-girt, lonesome

Cosmos of consciousness,

Watching The Proms after

A show, trying to find some

Auspicious truth, in the fragile

Clutter of my dreams


What will I find there

To hold onto? A few kind

Words? A mint edition collection

Of now stale embraces? A scattering

Of this seasons prophecies, all by

Wishes misconstrued?


I will find what I will

Find. And once the parties

Are all over, and the glasses

Have been drained, I will

Abscond to that storm-girt

Villa, and wait for you to

Find me

Poem: The Winter Mushroom


Love may be infinite
But it’s expression can be as perishable
As a Winter Mushroom
Not every spore produces a toadstool
Any more than every longing bears fruit
From imagination
To germination
The heart looks for fertile soil
In which to ground itself.