Ha’pence cast by Nickers of my eyes,
the illusions shattered by those who know not.
To pierce what filtered;
the new scorching shafts sear my sight, and green scars haunt my visions.
Brittle ice, a graceful float yet a mask for cool, still waters.
The stone thrust through to free the chill truth.
Yet not without ripples.
A while then, before a new calm,
and the ice of our former blindness, now shattered, melts
and joins the greater whole, to swell its understanding,
to lap at new shores and turn with new tides.


Now the Thames knows
it can come and tell.
For though you know,
re-telling will not stale
and may be,
can show a-new
something of what seeds
in every utter
for you, enjoys.

Come here,
come swiftly,
come now,
for I long for a holding
soft, warm, true.

For, while the Thames tells,
it does not bear back
for whom I care
into my arms.

Grace of Angels

A thousand sails testify to Grace in Troy
whose gilded gaze bears up the boughs on the balming,
casting shape not shadow here.
As a heart enfolded
to a Love prefigured
in long-held longing looking,
a Word for a Meaning unsought
scrib’d across a Soul,
in the Angel’s healing hand of Truth and Honour –

Seven stones

Seven stones-worth of unexpected loneliness.
An eternity in the making,
a lifetime in the breaking.
Diamond tears shed in prescient nagging
as my mending journeys proved fruitless as a ring sparkleless,
purchased with a labouring legacy vain;
so unlike that furnishing a roof for nurture
and the future’s true eternal – a lifetime.

Plus four


Steam-clouded skies bridge the primaries,
while flannels and flappers sport cloches and clubs.
Back-handed memory,
screened by family-friend fondness,
serves to challenge our cared- and catered-for collective;
our idylls now parched pale by the brutal brightness
of mourning’s light.