Sunday, 15 April 2007



I sit in the cooling air,

A last glass before bed

In this land of lemons,

Rock and steepling valleys.

The birds call across

Each to each while cars

Zip and disappear in the

dark. Rolling around

the hills - no straight lines,

No easy stroll home.

The night swallows another

As I switch off the last light.


How many more years

Will you be pleased

To see a goose?

When do you stop

Being my boys?


A couple on the beach.

Their children play with pebbles

While they rekindle damp tinder.

What fire can be made

With flint in such kisses?


And in this bowl of peace

I find myself unfold

Into this golden moment

I stop and let it hold.

1 comment:

corders said...

I never tire of seeing geese.