after the eve of st agnes

The click and snap of a checkerboard floor,
ebonised pews set in mournful rows,
armorial windows gleaming like blood smeared jewels;
amber stars trigger a time shift.
Keats in blanched stockings, leather shoes,
silver buckles glitter in the candles,
a seem of winter under the door
and centuries of poetry
falls in watery shafts of coloured light and grey ink.
I think of Isabella and Porphyro,
of letters, walks in the water meadows.
A genius I press my nose against the glass to see,
obscured by soft roses of ignorant breath.

wind rages

Wind rages with fists.
I wonder what trees will split.
What Prosperopoeian carnage will be born
In the Hangers tonight.
Where do the owls go on nights like this?
Where do they hide as branches
tear at the sky with desperate claws.

january

Ice pools in small squares

fringe in fractured thought

that touch the dry grass and gravel

crack in splintered flakes

and rest until

regular pad of rubber and steady huff of breath

slurs the splintered tarmac,

beats a heavy pace home.

It’s free up here; cold and free

a lifetime of running got me here;

the hawthorn and honeysuckle,

old man’s beard and ash are

markers of diligence,

a carefully learnt preservation

marked out in hedgerows,

kissing gates and cattle-grids.

A coming home of sorts

Or more a new beginning

familiar as time.