Poetry that featured in an exhibition at the Salthouse Gallery (1st March - 28th April 2008)

WORDFISH

Some words are slippery, like fish,
Darting away quickly
Down into the dark pool beyond memory
Others are quite spontaneous
Leaping unbidden from the throat
Flashes of brilliance
Seeking to find higher places
Where they can spawn new ways of being
Some challenge the flow. They face upstream
Gathering inspiration from what floats
If they were ever caught on this writers line
They would add substance to his thoughts

OAK

Oak fattened the boar. Oak cured the ham.
Oak was a shield board for the man.
Oak smoked the fish. Oak tanned the hide.
Oak sprang the flame that smelted iron.
Oak started sparks to fire the gun.

Oak were the staves that made the kegs
Oak were the casks that mellowed wine
Oak formed the frame that bore the beam
Oak channeled water, turned the wheel.
Oak sealed the sail and was the boat.
Oak was the ink that floated words.
And if those words are carved in Oak
They'll weather every storm at sea.
And if those words are chosen well
They will outlast the Oak itself.

AIR....

ESSENTIAL

in every artists repertoire;
the space between,
real…intangible.

We: slice lines in air
with our bodies and brushes
and batons and pens,

make a pause pregnant
leave it…hanging,

set air vibrating between
complementary colours,

string out…moments,

find the still centre
circumnavigate it,

make an imaginary balloon
give it to our audience.

It…floats…
    Look…look…floats…

TRINK HILL

I have watched the flight of the white bird
I have seen the raven on the stone
I have heard the vixen calling to her young
I know the passage of the sun and moon

I have seen the raven on the stone
Egg shell, snail shell and brittle bone
I know the passage of the sun and moon
From the rising to the setting and beyond

Egg shell , snail shell and brittle bone
They come from dust and to dust they are gone
From the rising to the setting and beyond
From dawn till dusk and dusk till rosy dawn

They come from dust and to dust they are gone
Arsenic, copper, tin and bronze
From dawn till dusk and dusk till rosy dawn
Hard granite echoes to their song

Arsenic, copper, tin and bronze
Slow decay and life reborn
Hard granite echoes to their song
Yellow Hammer, Robin, Wren

Slow decay and life reborn
I've heard a vixen calling to her young
Yellow Hammer, Robin, Wren
All fear the Barn Owl on the wing

LET ME FLOAT THIS PAST YOU

Boats are not simply functional designs.
They have another life in metaphor.
I see them as my muses.
We have played the riddle game.

At rest they rock a little
Making room for me.
At sea they battle with the elements
And in the process become beautiful.
We have rubbed flanks riding the swell.

See how vividly the rust breaks
Through, like memories
That flake away
Acquiring new shapes,
Ragged at edges
And becoming powdery

Deck boards are stained with engine oil
And scoured by salt and chain.
Nothing came easy. Scars
Are the brutal evidence. We sway
It's hard to keep our feet.

Below the waterline red oxide
Contrasts with the blue of paint
In rippling sky reflections
And we are moved to celebrate.

MONDAY'S TASKS

To make a basket for my love
To make a trap to catch a bird
To ply the craft to bend and work
To weave and wend between the wands
To bind the ribs which form the frame
To make a coracle to sail
Across the sea beneath the moon
To wind the pliant willow where
It grows beside the gentle stream
To make a cradle for a babe
To rock as though he were afloat
On water with a taste of salt
Safe, still, within his mother's womb
To make a basket for my love
To make a trap to catch a bird
To ply the craft to bend and work
To weave and wend between the wands
To bind the ribs which form the frame
To make a coracle to sail
Across the sea beneath the moon.

RESILIENCE

The frailest strands of birdsong
Stretched taut on the morning's loom
Are woven into music
Which will survive a storm

CHANGES

Second by second the river changes
Somewhere erosion undermines a bank
Somewhere the sediment is settling
A displaced stone can bend a stream
And mud can clog the entrance to a creek
Even a photograph can fade
Enjoy this moment
Now that moment's gone

WORDS COME FLOCKING

A message in the starling smoke
Quantum coherence won't be broken
Tossed to four compass points…dispersed,
These small birds gather,
       swarming, spiraling;
To form an ordered whole, an entity.

I chart my progress in this flight of birds
Weaving the warp and weft of words
Sensing significance in repetition
See latitude and longitude creatively
The shuttle whispers on the wing
Transforming the perception of the ordinary
Into a vision of enlightenment
Weaving a trance…a unity

TASKS

To make a basket for my love
To make a trap to catch a bird
To ply the craft to bend and work
To weave and wend between the wands
To bind the ribs which form the frame
To make a coracle to sail
Across the sea beneath the moon
To wind the pliant willow where
It grows beside the gentle stream
To make a cradle for a babe
To rock as though he were afloat
On water with a taste of salt
Safe, still, within his mother's womb
To make a basket for my love
To make a trap to catch a bird
To ply the craft to bend and work
To weave and wend between the wands
To bind the ribs which form the frame
To make a coracle to sail
Across the sea beneath the moon.