It was very bright in the room
and the brightness was deceptive,
under it sat darkness waiting,
and not quitetly, nor stilly,
but actively asserting
its right to overcome.
The others did not see
it there, they talked on
as though they were relevant.


spring mist

A feather of spring mist
holds down the day
a light confining
anaesthetic spray
a gentle restriction
or contraction of
the spirit and will,
waiting made visible.

This slight recoiling from
activity, the agreement
to sit still allows the rise
of small items of enquiry
made temporarily buoyant
or noticeable by general
motionless before
their matter appears to
dissolve or sink into
a milky interior.



The banks and bed define
so much of the river, its
sperad and speed of flow.
They are it’s narrative,

seem to be it, but they
are not, not its origin
nor food, we are deceived
by seeming containment,

continuity, our communal
use of it, usually we forget
that land is secondary,
a body worn by water.



Priscilla felt power emanating
from other people and fed on it
till she exhausted them,
they ran down like batteries
or scattered like hens.
If not, she pushed a grater over
their skins or poked twigs
in their eyes until they
noticed her and she
could refuse to stop.



I like the armour of the day,
the protection of the armour,
the illusion of protection.

I will roll through the library
until coated in peacefulness
my presence polished to a sheen
that forms the thin shell that shows
the species I belong to, and is
precisely what I want to be
a mollusc among molluscs.