Cliff Copse

The earth fell into bird-clef
threads of sound, chords unheard by Time,
a name-talon descending to purify my heart.

The anemone-ear, in plain water-chant,
hears the beauty of silence
as I fall into bird-clefs of clay and sound

unuttered in Time.

The sun’s plough
in blue ribbons of earth
and dancing white waves

with the green coral star
drains the blueberry grave
of Sandown Bay

as daisy-milk rays
effloresce in daylight.
And Mary’s bottle of dark apple-dreams

drinks the glance of a thousand eyes
giving paradise back
in teal-pear hearts

and pebble-lace prayers
that fall into birdsong threads of sand.

Lisbon Lies in Ruins
At The Abbey