Writer of Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction
Writer of Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction
The park’s diagonal avenue of limes
is in leaf. A warm southwesterly
billows through the foliage like falling surf,
like the tumultuous rushing of flames.
I watch you walk away under the trees,
and disappear into the green shade.
On the path directly opposite,
across an uncluttered expanse of grass,
you reappear some moments later,
undeterred by a surge of carefree cyclists
taking short cuts, or self-absorbed dog walkers.
You vanish beyond the wind-swept tennis courts.
The high windows caught the sky, varicose,
livid. The house was empty, unlived-in.
He hurried down wide paths strewn with rose petals,
wind-culled and faded. He searched borders,
bushes, her features imaged and snared in shapes
of angled branch and thorn, an orange sun
searing gun-metal clouds, the fountain sprouting
papery leaves, its bronze boy greening alone.
Ivy’s grasp crumbled artifice, obscured
the basin inscribed with a sonnet.
Soughing of breath or the wind in the arbour
summoned him into its close.
ALL THIS IS BUT A DREAM
ALL THIS IS BUT A DREAM
ACROSS THE ESTUARY
ORGANISED CRIMES
PAINTING PARADISE