I see possibilities arrayed
like a great flagstone path
and each flagstone has moss
and plants grow inbetween

And each flagstone is carved
from stone milled from language
the language of books and films
they are stacked about the path

And the rain and wind-grit
are giving them a hard time
so the titles have ripped off
or faded in the sun – the path

(this may be important)
only appears retroactively
that is – I can only see it
looking over my shoulder.

The path in front of me
looks clean and I am walking
but I don’t mean to be walking
through a mist from the waterfall

The Wind

A world shadow sunders the aching stone
While soft sweat skins me with fizz,
Dulls me to things which rest in dark hiding,
Woods-wall surge from the under-tree dark
Guiding lights and their nihilist drivers.

I see crisp packets tumble, like fragments of net
Caught in a deep sea current, and traces of flesh
From forgotten fish and dead
Are tumbling with them, waving as the wind waves grass
Concentratedly threshing it out.

The packets brim with bright marks
Crumpled, they spin and the marks
Read like symbolic productions
But the oil-shell is cavernous empty,
With the gusts, with the leaf-swells.

The wind, our material ancestor,
Placidly lends us her quality,
as memories lend them to dreams;
Our father and mother the wind,
Our breathing our sucking the wind

Our egg the wind our embryo
Our trace the wind our husks.
Carved whale bones blow in its kisses,
Clacking congealing the wind
In a storm front shivering rhapsody thing.

Whitby Church Hymn

Those limestone souls, a crowd surge to the gates
where wooden beams nourishing wyrm, deny
a crossing of the red river – useless names,
given fresh to the mason-master puppeteer.

Sitting squat, one arm outstretched, and sly
squinting for the sea-spray, grim eyes dripping
complacent – playing with a certain joy, and lit
as the moon brings him a cawing custom of hope.

But chaos, in its own self certitude
sways slowly forth in undulations of infinite patience
caressing those lucky ones inside

Where more are lost, soft names dissolving
As the waiting hollows reveal their shapes, and the less
In turn await their pockmarking.