'
on the journey home
thunder, sitting in silence
letting dust settle
village graveyard--full
of daisies,dandelion clocks
and dying light
hole for the tree
my hand
stirring her ashes
in goal
his mother dodges
away from the ball
tending the path
to the gate,beyond
ruts heading downhill
sea side graveyard
still enough space
to store a boat
bookshop,filed under
motorbikes a volume
on cycladic art
playground empty
but for wind
playing with sparrows
winter's afternoon
making love
the boiler comes on
an urgent call
to wash my hands
of the garden
waiting for news
with me,on the settee
her drop of blood
to travel silent
as the morning hare
on the gravel road
between each
foxglove,a gap
in buzzing
dawn wind
air jangles
with birds
his funeral suit
in a turn up
the wardrobe key
on fennel
gathering mist,shells
of transparent snails
porch bell silent
its clanger gently
strikes the wind
hospital
white plum blossom feels
the pulse of the moon
.
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