winter's end —a neverending storyquickens the past
blood red sea . . .a day's coagulationof beached words
la petite mort . . .the coldness of the seawithdrawing
winter retreat —love-lies-bleeding droopsinto darkness
acrid wind . . .the scent of night,a weapon
spring awakening . . .a child breathes deeplythe winds of war
Anzac Day . . .an ashen grey skyreddens
cross tide . . .godwits imprinttheir return
rite of spring —the path lostin a delirium of light
unrollingdarkening scrolls —winter tide
spring elegy —a morepork prophesyingthrough the night
what pathos!how a dewdrop becomesa metaphor
trembling pen —river fog redefinesmy limits
'property is theft' —the grey warbler raisesa shining cuckoo
clearing sky —my GPS intonesits elegy
broadcasting a storma widening web spans treesof indifference
wayward wind —the whole world glistenswithin a web
morning deweven now perishingbut the birdsong . . .
setting sun —light rages againstits dying
darkened church —a votive candle lingersin the mist
a cosmic storm twirls through her fingers . . .butterfly sounds
night vigil . . .this stillness pregnantwith her presence
earth tremor . . .the basso profundoof ancient gods
'fiat lux'—after seven days,this vast chasm
expanding night . . .the sound of a moreporkbetween stars
crescent moon —silence drifts out ofmy empty page
unmarked grave —forest shadows riseagainst the mound
wordless . . .a hatchling fluttersin the dark
seen through,an honesty ripensin darkness
moonstruck,a river wanders offin a dream
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