Posted in Passages


Fistfuls of light
thrown by sombre trees
strike unlikely sentinels –
weathered soft toys,
bleached wooden trains,
threadbare windmill,
scruffy, gentle markers, softening brutal inscriptions.

Dearly missed,
Aged –
16 hours,
two days,
three weeks.
five months.
Kate, Anna, Kyle, Melanie
never progressed to surname
will never require differentiation.

School remains unknown
as does inequality
and betrayal.
Innocence and loss
sway quietly together
grief’s slow waltz
painful and sweet.

When melancholy won
or luck felt picked upon
I came here,
perspective –
grief, what could be more?
Motivation was selfish
balm, my loss lessened by comparison
a form of optimism
the difference between being destitute and
almost destitute
a degree of betterment.

Now, coming to terms has accepted
moving on goes back, often – for them.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.