Two halves of a metaphor,
the two sides of the sea:
A coin that keeps rolling,
ever walking the line;
and there are heavy elements
in space above
and lighter dreams beneath
the ocean waves,
and whales toeing
the high rope bridging firmaments,
astronauts walking
the floor of long drowned caves;
and all is its own unending
in the chest of uncarved glyphs
tossed unto the crooked weighing scale
to be measured against possibilities


Otherness comes clad in a foreign colour, too full of contradictions to be described, to be painted;
it comes in alien ships under alien sail and flag, the swooshing cape of golden stars falling into a sea brimming with whale skeletons eating away at the fabric of uniform thoughts

September Magic

Stay until the first star appears
and follow home the blue hour:
September magic,
seeping into your bones,
up from the ground;
flowing out of your fingertips,
taking flight with the bats

and the reeds sing of
summer returning in its softer shape
muted, transmuted, brilliant in
apple-crisp mornings, gold and red
between the wisened green
and the deepened sky

and there is movement
and something more

looking for
a wider place.