“Reclamation”

tree, root – pushed through stone,
splitting spilt mortar on old tiles

walk, ivy wind breakers. mansion
walls, rainwatered vine, no wine
left here to drink – broken ground
unclaimed, now, doorway a henge
with filigree runes.

“Lagoon”

it doesn’t resist your steps,
forcing heavy legs to limp
through thick thigh-high
silt and water, parting fronds
falling down to drape across
your shoulders, catching foreheads
with the odd pin-pricking thorn.

the trees drinking so deeply
pack themselves around you,
almost marvelling themselves
to waking at this strangeness
trampling through the roots
eyeing the orchids perching
in fragile perfection on logs.

“And it Roars”

Midnight mental meanderings,
scribble-scorched papers,
bed sheets bloodied by ink and words
and thoughts and feelings, felt
and unfelt, uncertain assertions
tumbling through possible pathways
previously hidden –
sweet permissible nothingness,
welcome black, void-edge twirling
spinning, failing, flying nothing-anxieties
with broken backs, scars bursting
into being, pockmarks
marking palmprints with curling
spiraled roots searching for water,
love and life – life and love,
inkwells running dry of familiar
worlds and words and whereabouts,
nothingness, voids, oblivion, black,
sweetness bitter burning, understanding
scratches the front of your cortex,
potential enlightening, understanding,
it all bristles at your coming, but
fades when you reach for it,
fingertips and fog, a desert swallows
a drop of water, a bead of sweat,
a ball of insubstantial everything
growing in the centre of your forehead,
taking all the space of your thoughts
and none of it,
subsuming you, breathing you,
breaking you, walls of loss
and life and love and loss rising
infront, behind, before, afterwords,
intent is lost, it was never
found or had or loved or
lost or lived or loved, or loved
or loved

“The Valley”

We swept through the valley like wind
rustling over undergrowth and roots,
drinking our fill of air and life and love.

we found that grove of trees,
heard those voices older than words,
felt faces in the bark and salt
on the floor – blood was spilt
long ago, here, for Gods long gone.

once, they’d stood together
on roots drunk with life
once, they’d stood together
against a legion’s love
once, they’d lay together
amidst the burning trees.

from that grove a new emerges,
godless, born of salt and blood
and song: the song’s of bards
born before the wall could crumble.

we found that grove, and many others:
we found and we remember
what chants lived in these boughs,
and what God’s died in them.