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Some shocks thunderbolts
Hurled across the living room
“That’s it, I’m leaving”

Some are more subtle
Tiny changes day by day
Not even noticed

An old photograph
Depicts a startling stranger
We no longer are



Sketching old ruins
Applying subtle highlights
Artful mimicry

Mr Simon


Slip-sliding away
Those lyrics we memorised
Winter of our days

Miss Jones


We lost one another somehow, lost our way
In a trick of the light in a mist in a maze

Gasping, grasping, grappling day after day
As seconds turn into minutes, hours, days

So long, so long by some cruel fate kept apart
Yet memories glow in my mind, dear old friend

And it’s chin up, stand firm and never lose heart
For some day we’ll revel together again in the end

PTSD (A Four By Six)


Disturbing images
Still after all this time
Scratches soon disappear
Scars remain forever

Past Fancies


Plying one another with youth
This prattle of inconsequence
Hucksters, twitching to and fro
Reinstigating further dialogue
Now you seem me, now you …

… scramble for stable geolocation in an
Imaginary empyreal fractal geometry
Recall now all those fell off the map
Who never quite made the grade
Who never ran the full course

Languishing yet in one’s mind’s eye

The Convent Ghost


The ageing abbess wanders the grounds
Her sight, her balance a problem now
And her memory worn down to blisters

Inside the main hall she fingers away
At the old badly tuned grand piano
Bequeathed by one of her sisters

Up in the choir loft she pauses, hearing
An ethereal melody, softly embroidered
By a band of unseen angelic choristers


This is a response to the prompts at

It seems an appropriate posting for this Samhain evening.

Ragged (Reposted)

……………………………………………………………………………………………Pour Alain Fournier

Leaning close to a tape recorder speaker
To search old pop songs for her memories – are they hollow men?
(You can detect the echo between record player and microphone
Across the big room near Birmingham where they were recorded)

As a saint you have tried to detach yourself
You have told every little secret to many people
To destroy the purity you have repeated your stupid story
Till it runs like a gutter with nameless old remains of words

Broken in half the fragile beauty of spring
And sucked at the bones – walked a hundred times by the same river
Leaning over sad parapets to search again for the flecks of dreams
Which unlike your memories, failed saint, you could never destroy

As you still feel the need to defend yourself
Against the chink of coins made by other people’s memories
Tired of generosity and jealous somehow of their secret sighs
You swear that you were wrong and will be a miser now with them

Are you ready then to find the hidden path
Which leads to a domain ringed by trees that in your youth you sought?
Failing by yourself (nothing is left when all has been destroyed) can you
Ask another, bohemian herself, to complete the map?

You stare at her as she stares at someone else
You have nothing to say, but if she ever slept beside you
Next day, as militants searched for solidarity and saints for God
Perhaps you could search through your blankets for long strands of her hair



Both sweet and sour
The intermingling flavours
Of love found and lost

No Breeze To Shoot


Released: memories;
Future imaginations.
What path left to walk?

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