its a light touch we need, lay out your scraps of green.

clearing the drawers, the shelves collapsing years at the edge of the local tip, a shallow grave. at other thresholds who dreams of what...

a moth to a flame, we return pulled beyond ourselves to the drawing board

i carry willingly, take courage to cross, you cannot span a gap without knowing the fall.

eye level with the rocks and the dust you could have been my prince steady and stoic in your pursuit of the other side

not all the soho nail bars could out revel the sycamores coming out party

my 8yr old self would stand unabashed ready to launch. i welcome every visit still, salve to the bruises of the road.

easy to be tender to your fragile wrap, inhabit your sweet promise harder to hold the eyes of our hungry ghosts and answer

what is it you want? something you've not yet found in those long nights of whispering and many-tongued dreams.

who will come? who will help?

yew seeds set forth take their time to move from dormancy to growth lessons for my slim attention

you say it might be tonight that you dream again of flying journeys that trace beyond yourself

anticipation bone deep for the silver arrow that draws the summer

how will we read the smoke on the horizon?

yellow north pull seeding south fault-lines east to west

i am carried on the rise a bubble from iron to the blue

roofing generations children of ghosts years ago drawn into peat now reflecting my years on the glass

how do you find yourself? here amongst and within the myriad.

the world's freedom without our craving so hard to figure. even here, craving to have it to myself spills

hollow hedge the pathos of old honours tied to the thicket scant cover won in other springs yet the green spies, the wind breathes.