Imprint

The imprints of Autumn’s damp shadow

lie as ruby stains with their sunken veins,

clinging with brittled paper skin

to a drying ground. Their fringed outlines,

fading in May, finally coaxed and freed

by a warm summer wind. 

City Bird

Tame, mellow breast

of the city’s silent gazers.

Accustomed now,

to the unnatural lights,

hollowed shrieks of glee,

the rows of cheap eats.

A wary attempt

at birdsong with colour,

washed pale, translucent

in the midst of howling polluters. 

Oregon Grape & Pheasant Berry

Oregon Grape

Happy in sun

or shade

is the smallish shrub.

As its red hue spreads,

dense in Autumn

fever,

its perfumed shrub
lies in wait,

pinpricked

with blackberries.

Pheasant Berry

Green shoots

puncture

purple fruit,

as they weave

through the red-wine

bracts

of the most pleasant berry.

Untitled

They watched as he drew closer,

a shadowy figure zig-zagging

through moonlight, cutting up stars

that so carefully construct

the way home, like pin points

on a old map now faded,

edges forming of a brand new galaxy.

The ship waits in the un-mapped water,

nervous as a parent, anxious

for it’s child’s return to land that’s known,

not unbranded seas of orange and gold,

glittering peninsulas and Eskimo-white peaks. 

Brigsteer

The paintbrush flicks, lines form.

The smell of wood smoke in the breeze,

Robins sing each shade of green.

A canvas glows in the lifeless room.

Damp smell of early rain

Above the city street.

The sirens howl outside.

Anonymous taxis clog grey streets

With heavy-hanging smog.

Inside the paintbrush rests

On a flat green valley

Nestled between hills of rolling lime.

Silvery pools of rain,

Shallow in their patterns.

The blue sky, lilac cloud.

Washes. Expanses.

August

Morning mists surround

fruit trees with sweet apple

and citrus scents,

florals carried in the breeze

of sunny vineyards.

The freshness of berry

ripening in the air,

as the sparrows sing.

Seafront

Weeds hang in blue-green seas,

pirated by the waves as they roll in,

or they flap against hanging masks

in brisk, salty air.

Pieces of broken shell

stick to clammy feet as tides

reach and grasp at grains,

tugging from the shore

to be relinquished once more

by shacks selling fresh crab

or sticky-sweet rock,

emblazoned as the seafront.