Monthly Archives: April 2013


heart 3

Inspired by Owen Sheers’ book Calon: A Journey to the Heart of Welsh Rugby

strange muscle
this carmine closed fist
vital percussionist

hollow metronome
caged in bleached-bone

strong, pear-like pump
and yet succumbs

to the quick tear
the soft bruise
the bladed scrape

patched and pinned
to an aching chest

untimely unrest
of arrhythmic pulse
steadying once more

to beat


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As the earth peels away
from the sun, we hurriedly
pack up the day,

stow it away in old tea chests,
hermetically sealed,
lest the light should escape

to further flay our already
wind-whipped eyes.
We sit on containers

let our full weight bear down
on blonde wood while sunbeams
screech and claw at locked lids,

dry carcasses splintering
in the quickening wrath
of incarcerated heat.

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It is here
in these quiet moments
that we find it;

when we have nailed
hurricanes to the floor
and collected monsoons
in thimbles,

as we lay,
chests heaving,
in the debris-strewn dust,

for a subtle shift,
a tender tremor
that will lift us to our feet

and have us leaning
into the wind, learning
to trust the breeze
once more.

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Ash Wednesday

candle 3

A single beat, a breath
since I held the unclothed
flame to the wick;

brief crackle of blue sulphur
before the waxy melt yielded
to cool, clear glass.

Standing by the stove,
you lit a cigarette,

as you removed the tiny
tealight and replaced it
with crumbling ash.

hundreds of miles away,
I flickered amid female faces,

circled by the tinkle
of long-stemmed
wine glasses,

washed in the amber
swirl of familiar laughter,
and no-one

lit a cigarette.

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While you were sleeping


I wrote this
while you were sleeping;

while your head imprinted
a vanilla linen memory
and the chintz eiderdown
rose and fell with the cadence
of your lungs,

while the fingers of my
left hand caressed
your open palm,
our warm legs tangling
between rumpled sheets,

while slumber
smoothed the furrows
of your day’s toil,
scattering the remnants
to the brisk March winds,

while my name tumbled sleepy
from your lips and the black dog
bayed at the waning moon,
knowing he would find
no quarter at our door.

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Filed under Free Verse, Poetry