Cosmic Dust





Everbody knows

to try and stop a woman in love

from loving

means devastation in the village

The well is cracked full dry

Crops wither and spit

Cartwheels meet horse heels

Passengers splayed

The Gaslight will not be lit

The wolves are in the henhouse

The ferryman is drunk

Lucky’s dice won’t roll tonight

The last boat home is sunk


And when the sun has baked the earth like a bowl

And even the night breeze is wilting

The Evenstar breathes

Relief into stillness

And Lucky sings the walk home



Love cannot be halted

(A horse cannot live life sitting down)

Love cannot be contained

( a cup is merely a moment’s rest)

Love cannot be dammed

Damming is for things that mean to pool

Love is not a fool

Love cannot be tidied

Set upon a course

Love fears not colliding

(With logic’s counter-force)

Love cannot be detonated

Dashed against the rocks

Turned to stone on castle steps

Stuffed in trunks with locks

Cast to embers, transcended, dismembered

Refuted, negated, subverted, berated

The cosmic dust goes round and round  

We sing our song without a sound”



Prophetic Loss


The Gathering


When the time came for something to be done,

A dove was sent,

This was not a time for donkeys.

The prophets were beckoned to the town square,

And with that the dove took rest.


No problem too big, no fate too heavy,

They would work together,

Like they always had,

And they would come upon answers,

Like they always had.

And so,

They left.


Crept from the tower on silent feet

Left shadows in the woods on guard

Sailed from the cove

Single fleet

Packed myrrh in the crook of a cart


Embers still from fires willed

Put them-selves to sleep

Light fell fortune’s way lest time

Be siphoned in the deep


A gentle brow on Prophet One

The skies of intellect

Blue and calm, eternal balm

Logic resurrect


Leather footed, feathered, padding

Strong is Prophet next

Beaded, painted, holy, sainted

Gather now the rest


In the circle centre stands the leader of the Clan

Ten thousand beads strung onto reeds

The years since time began


A pool of blue-black water

In a cradle on a stand

The Prophets wait to see the Fates

Etched out across the land


One by one  they take their place

They’ve already accepted

The human race, future’s face

It’s all to be expected


There are no shrieks, no beating drums

No fainting and no rising

No striking swords or fervent words

Debating or surmising


For when they look into the pool

Each soul is struck with yearning

Their own reflection heralds now

Narcissus Returning