it is just past Christmas,
and the air smells strangely like salt,
as if we were the sea, or had been
crying for days.
fog steams from the folds
and valleys of my father’s house; we
rake gravels back
into the drive—
the hard little memories
of snowploughs past—
tidying up edges, sweeping
aside leaf mould and the damp
with calloused hands.
isn’t this always
how it is at year’s end?
i am almost listening
for seagulls,
for the squawk
of some new thing
being born.

a beginning sort of day

crawled out of this morning;
i was blowing the dead leaves
from its still downy hair
when two new twinned
lives grinning arrived
in the backseat of
Somebody’s dreamcatcher
and with fingers like
examined every
strand of me; i carried them
like pistols on each hip,
aimed at the world and all
the cries of its

Awen’s footprint

i am a blade of grass
bent into muddied waters;
i am gravel displaced
by the pressure of loss;
i am glass become sand
become glass again:
the injunction of a clear singer,
the wisdom of the sea.


Follow me uphill;
roll aside
the Sarsen stone set
over my
soul, unearthing
the well of stale
passion that
expires breath-
wise under damp
breasts and dry heat.
Find me a new
shrine to an old
desperation buried in clouds
of molded hope, somewhere
deep and high where i
can claw out and
lay down with pride
the four bloodied
chambers of this broken