Ragged Hands

Ragged hands make waves in sodden,
churned water where you stand.

In this place of wonder only birds
can swoop to depose gratitude;

they are hands of a spineless God,
a mobile, wretched in its swathes

of winded wonder. Glass panelled foliage
makes a mockery of horizons

where bears dream up to sticks and
down to stones. A barking ghost

hides in woodland, ever searching for
an encampment to dishevel.

These lands encase every eye rolling
thought and blissful tear, into suds; gone.

An oddity to me

It’s an oddity to me
This space
This place
That grace you seek
It’s an oddity to me

It’s an oddity you see
The tiles
The dust
The humming in my knee
It’s an oddity you see

It’s a dilemma to think twice
The fragrance
The lights
The smoke that pours out twice
It’s a dilemma to think twice

It’s an anvil weighted greatly
The honour
The despair
The way she combs her stoned hair
It’s an anvil weighted greatly

It’s a dusty tome that groans
The leather
The scrawling
The hefted words of once wisdom
It’s a dusty tome that groans