Through eyes,
Looped and wonderful,
In mud that cakes,
Sugared and full fat,
Drawn on into every mad
Thought made physical.
Pulled tight and touching;
Rubbing when the
Time calls.
Snapping when only
A breakaway will do.
Absolute and fair
In telling what is what.
These lanes that lap
In leaps are
Oft rigid but forgot.
Pulse thickens and
Thins the threads of old
That twine around a heartbeat,
And in the waking day,
Wet or dry,
The rumbling world is but another feat.

The Denigrators

Wistful is the way
that the shadows shore up to play
and the length of a baking day
is a minor balm that shines.

This bliss without the rain
assuredly contained
by the well that echoes my name
these small hands own all this land.

Figurative in all endeavour
yet they darken all the weather
and denigrate the ether;
this land holds no more sway.

A momentary fragment
lost to wind and time imagined
the well repeats my soft lament
in silence where the land fades.