2 November 2014

The M of L

So, what were you saying the meaning of life is? 

It's a single star we find at the bottom of a well of cloud. It's the hiss and crackle of Diwali fireworks and the dog in every room, barking. It's a night train, brightly lit and empty, picking up speed. It's a hawk and then another, hovering beside the road in a blustery wind. It's the one wind turbine that isn't turning. It's a face you'd like to see, if they'd only turn around. It's the sound of a movie playing in another room, your younger days. It's the sound of our ten feet kicking through leaves, the four of us. It's a pink glove reaching out from a corner heap of windblown leaves. It's dusk descending and the dog catching sight of his ghost self in the glass. It's an owl, white shriek from the pitch-black woods. It's whatever's in the torch beam and little else. It's the long black hair of night, with three sounds braided together: wind, rain and hillside stream. It's the braying of a donkey somewhere on the opposite hillside. It's autumn sunlight stumbling down a vertiginous wooded slope. It's a man in a red plaid jacket collecting eggs, carrying them back in the crook of his arm. It's the whole mill town deep in shadow, sunlight on the surrounding hills. It's a stone buddha cross-legged on the canal boat foredeck. It's a few quiet moments at the grave of someone you loved.

(My "It's-ku" from the last few days, in and around Hebden Bridge, gathered.)


23 October 2014

another bowl

there goes

another bowl

i wasn't broken

until religion

broke me


unpicked apples

Unpicked apples, the ambitions of my Spring now withered


roadkill pheasant

all the blustery colours

of autumn


driving north

Driving north, through my head a swirl of starlings

in one go

In one go, all the rain in a rainstick

windfall days

Windfall days, at last I let go of the tree


The religion virus, today I officially got the all-clear


it's rolling

down the road

by itself

an empty can

of energy drink


God is ...

the name

we give to our


i will not

bow down


wet paint

"Wet Paint" 

my dog, ever

the literalist . . . 


i discover

a new molecule

all that's left

in the tin

of sticky sweets