Poems

Seamus is off now to the cold wet bog pen slung on shoulder strap good thick boots a shovel in the pack slap slop cling clang dancing on wet moss the tools…

up there on a kite of hunger empty  belly hocks and spits dreams far ahead to chase catch and wrestle to earthbelow a city an aerial view dry wretch an empty howl…

where is Beaudelaire? on horseback swolen eyed, chased by mortors cheek chiseled by serving years spinning delight, the fruit of his pipebedside Beaudelaire, the regular turn of fanning pages

green, green, green a hill of patriot boots stacked outside the hindered explorers’ club

Alabaster Ariadne, her golden thread from dark stone to the light it led to a glade so green empty of strife, leaves and berries, a carpet of moving life. verdant, vermilllion apparent, concealed to follow…

I’ll never dance in santo spirito lost for words in the dome’s bright armour letters reach around giotto’s tower horses gambol, fall, fly detached from an ache – a lowered bucket in…

walking in Wicklow awake in the woods absorbed in freckled yellow light, warm and dusty the colonial nave this enveloping cloud, that enchanted cave. surrounded by oak asleep in the water, the…