The bird in the cage

The men at the table

The sea in the distant mist

The capture of time

The quest of the mind

The hopelessness and the bliss

The spoon and the fork

The small jug of milk

The sun from window to floor

The start of the day

The middle of May

The kettle the cake the core



I mourn for you in the morning with the sunlight on my back

I wonder if it’s for you or for a kind of love I’ve never had


The one who burns to draw you while you’re naked and asleep

The one who yearns to listen to the secrets that you keep


Still I whisper to the love I feel as it sits beneath my chest

I hear you but be patient for it is time that answers best


The sun rises to my hair, dancing between the strands

I remember how you held it as we moved amongst the sand


In writing now it’s love I feel not mourning as it started

Without or with another one I will never be half-hearted