Dans un ciel sans nuages

Far beyond the weeping bough of a tree

the amnesiac hunts echoes of his memory

intangible and just that single, mirage beyond

those shimmering ripples of a now sunset pond

C’est seulement le vent qui souffle

The chime of lotus petals are embossed deep within

pressed close, and fragile between the onion, paper, skin

folded a thousand times and a thousand times more

forged thinner on a fiery anvil by the mighty, Thor

Tout le monde attend le premier timbre du tonnère

The tiny patter of patterns in a fractured fractal core

frond ferns and feelings of an ancient heathland sore

cut to the cuticle quick of him and so perfect laced

where the abscess of absence teethes all that he faced

Et le monde tombe dans un silence profond

The hazel haze of fast and now fading mists

drops sanguine red brooks to follow each his wrist

the cloaks of virgins squeezed out of all their oil

and so do wave the waiver and turn from earthly toil

Les âmes ne marchent plus

The legions from the otherworld in black and Taureg dress

ride hair-net camels to urge the words to outward press

cyclamen ghosts made substance in an aphid’s wing

eat fortune cookies to learn the fate which they must now, sing

Les ésprits sont déjà passés

In the sparkle, sparkle shadow of the morning star

the nomad knows each every trail and he has travelled far

cursed no more and with all the demons gone

he has found the place where he might, belong.

Et enfin il est arrivé, enfin… …

Dancing the edge

Tingling and tangling

Dancing the razor’s edge

On the weary toes of… hope


Searching the dark winding

Passages wound

In the Lenten fabric of before


Watching the whirring

Windmills of the mind

Step with Scheherazade

On to

The fragile stage of fate


In the wind comes

The fiddler’s note

Carving the heart strings

Tidal pull


And surging with Passion,

To bathe away doubt

Hung in a moment

On a bridge still to cross


In the never ending

In between

Of the vital, living, now


In the corner shop cavern

Of the aching heart

Searching the shelves

For that final ounce


Wrapping it well

With a moistened

Tear stained bow


And giving it anyway



That is what it means

………… to be truly alive.

An der Ecke

Looking in the corners for what wasn’t there I found a treasure.

A long, long time ago I walked from a small hiker’s cabin past Blüemlisalp and the Morgenhorn to Oeschinensee. I fell in love with Oeschinensee and visited it a number of times after that. On one particular day when the snow clouds lay low and pregnant I walked up the path, doing the cold weather version of mad dogs and Englishmen. As the snow fell heavy on me and built a nest in my eyebrows I experienced a silence that, if it is not of God Himself, well it, it is the next best thing…….

as the twist in the mist

corners the edge of a Venturi time

calling a place

no name

my water boatman steps

on the very meniscus of time


the fickle

dragonfly of hope

to pinch the gathering waist

of the damsel mam’selle fly

and the trickle of time

runs diamonds through

the finger tip rocks

of ages gone

and the stardust comet writes

tender letters

on the canvas of


and the rainbow surfer

rides the glisten

of a tear

wrought of the anvil

of memory’s

golden coin

to tinkle waterfall


on her collar

and the will written

in the dying of a son

turns its pages

once again

as behoves

the hooves on the new born


that skate so fragile

on the thin ice

of life

and in the falling

the blood red cells

do mark the snow

to cut the quaver

crisp and pristine

with the stern stars that do

look disapproving from


and the bubble-gum


of the Montagues and the Capulets

are now still

and the

there, there, there

does soothe the tooth

from the gum

to post a toast

in an envelope of cheer

with a  red waxen seal

that claps the hands of it

for a silver-fish


that might bring a tingle to eyes

lest a tear

be born

the fawn of another dawn

makes strong its scent

lest be hurt again

as the silent snowflake counter

caresses each number

to mark

and the silence cries


to hear the beating of

a pounding heart

that drums the mountain blood

now fierce in the ears

now calm

as the clamorous folly of hope

falls silent

lest offend the snow

and raises a finger

to his lips

lest a secret spend

so the snowball dream


and the silken scarf

pulls tight ‘gainst the wind

and the boatyard ribs

whistle a merry tune

that the beachside groynes

do beg with the sand

should run away

from Babushka’s world

and seep deep

into Steppes

and hear




dance its crystal pendant

in the pageant

of the dream

and now sotto voce

to wonder

at why he still cares

and would wander on the wings

of a mellow cello


to curl the tails

of a question

stark in the air

of a little longer

‘fore to turn

and be done


to weight the circle


‘til Oeschinensee

leaves again

a calling card

that makes the key

to take

And calls

And calls

And calls

…….. and calls

A Dreamer’s Miscellany

Ridges and swirls,

Curling and whirling

And softly


Into the hot,


Red wax of life

Now the clumsy nimble


Of thumbs.

Closing the flap

Of the present’s


With the heart’s



In the springtime


That envelop the wood.

And now clothe

Those millstream


And gurgle

The nursery

Daffodil’s rhyme.

That finger’s


Walk into the glade.

On snowdrop’s

Tippy toe


Mille feuille,




Dances the dressage’s




Folding the fragile

Quail’s egg



Oh so


With icing




On the pristine


Hillside path.

Each tender



Teasing and


Its way

In the virgin snow.

To soothe

The heart’s




Written in

That first,




That prised

Prised open

The whalebone


Of his chest.

And found

The black and white


Of hope’s


Tender chord.

And placed

His stubborn



On the dancer’s stage.

To soar

On desert winds

Crescent moon

And to count

The infinite,