Burnished drops hang on the wind’s own words,
Most aware of their perfection.
Landing softly on the wings of birds,
Gazing on their own reflection.

All along the lengthy winding way,
Faces turn to garner favours,
At the closing of another day,
As the bright horizon wavers.

And the story nears a certain close;
One of joy or one of sorrow.
Who can tell for sure, since no-one knows,
What the tale will be tomorrow?

Burnished drops hang on the wind’s own words
As the sun recedes in beauty,
Bringing forth the blissful silken night
Ready to perform her duty.


The Photograph

The flecks in your eyes,
The curve of your face,
The swing in your hair,
Your bright, quiet grace.
The line of your lips,
The strength of your chin,
The slant of your nose,
The sadness within.
The tilt of your head,
The sweep of your brow,
The strength of your poise,
They’ve all faded now.
I can’t see your face
When my eyes are shut tight,
So I look at this picture
And miss you tonight.


the cold iron rails,
the grey, concrete ground,
the black-mirrored ripples,
the wind’s lonely sound,
the hum of the ferry,
the wake’s frothing line,
the shore’s curving profile,
the water’s lithe spine,
the shrill conversations,
the feel of the spray,
the gulls’ constant chatter,
the call of the bay,
the thrust of the current,
the dance to and fro,
the long tidal rhythms.
the stillness below,
the buoys and the tyres
the waves push along
the music and words
of the proud river’s song.