Thursday, June 1, 2017




On my closed eye lid screen I see
a bewilderment of doves.
Once caught in cloud cages, wind wires,
from barn loft, orchard wall,
they flutter free.
To doors on the horizon,
they carry a key.
I can only be a witness,
watch them go,
further and further
away from me.
Human as I am I will never know
the lift through the air
on such white feathered wings.

Harbour master, keep awake,
do not sleep through the storm.
Reports of wrecks on the rocks
should never be.
Send out light ships
to guide all sailors home.
Lighthouse keepers,
cleanse your lamps clear.
Dark waves rise,
souls fear to drown at sea.
Remember the mariner
who slew the albatross.
After the deed, an icy ache
he felt inside his hollow trunk,
his punishment for the loss.
Winter night on the shore,
no light from moon or star.
Harbour master, study your charts,
to tell all sailors what to do,
reveal to them where they are.
Some are so far out at sea,
though they may dream
of a harbour below a cliff,
they let it go by,
as a hope of anchor,
naught but a mariner myth.

Wish I were a March hare,
out there on the moor,
sniffing spring in the air,
after the winter thaw.
My brain would be alert,
my ears would quiver.
From danger I would spurt,
run down to the river.
I'd listen to the birds,
piping in the grass,
while white clouds roam in herds,
not caring they will pass.
I'd leap through fields of sheep,
free of fox and hawk,
see old mole wake from sleep,
where humans never walk.
My ears and hind legs long,
my nose keen to scent,
the wild where I belong,
there I would make my dent.
Though I'm not a March hare,
out there on the moor,
I still breathe the spring air,
after the winter thaw.


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