Fig Tree

Forbidden tree, beautiful Sykeus,
I will spill your seeds, and risk enlightenment,
though it means long hours of toil.
Here, in the wilderness, you are my courage and fortitude
and a flexible place to call my home.
I will build, not to impress, but to shelter and renew,
and I know you will feed me – together we will bear great fruit.


Head dress

To Summer, the fragile three-feather head dress

is a reminder of a vision she once wore,

of a sparkling pool, a seed picnic strewn with friends,

and she a glorious Bird of Paradise.


But to Summer’s lover, as his autumn approaches,

that wretched flash of white feathers

is an imposition, a symbol of southward flight,

a triad of bright hopes waiting to be dashed –

the sky high damage potential of impermanent bliss.



We are on the ebb,
shifting from the shoreline,
by our leave revealing a hand print.

Who walked in waters deep
when we were at our zenith, but unaware?
Who cast this hopeful trace to be
discovered once our backs are
billowed and summarily borne away?

None of us saw.
Not these rocks, or this sand,
neither those popping seaweeds,
not bright day or even blinking night.

Now though, lit by the humble remains
of a grander declaration, this pearly outline,
shadow-picked and oscillating at our edge
seems a simple statement, a wave,
waiting to be reciprocated.

In Bits

In my disenchanted garden a thousand feathers are cast
messed and untethered from a broken bird,
while emaciated noodles flown in from Singapore
entangle nastily in my fridge, twitching to the bitch of
disembodied wireless witches, busy insinuating
trashed and shattered lives into wheat
shredded for modern convenience.
My unspoken words are only roughly equivalent
to their original tidy meanings,
and sit uneasily, itching to be Gestetnered.