Up On Broomhill

Blacks clouds crackle like static And cause my roses to wilt and waste away, So instead of picking flowers I end up raising the dead Who ride on the wind To arrive like thieves at my door. I am almost tempted to let them in, But they’d only turn to dust To dance and swirl…


No sun, no light, no gold- No colour except black And the unclouded mould Of sky; plain, thin, old, Marbled with glassy droplets; Crystals unfold, But I remain empty, transparent, Nothing, so cold, My life a soul already sold.

Witching Hour

Black lines like veins and scars Pressed against sapphire seas, Setting suns And shadows sinking to the floor.