Fading in the Celtic mist


It’s early in the morning
And the streets are empty,
Ideas of consciousness
Float through my mind,
Tossed by the chilly wind,
While I am bent out of shape
From distant memories
Of soft and delicate desires.

I want to tell her
I’m not that hard to find.
If she were still by my side
I would swim for her
Against the running tide,
Toward the waiting future.

I wonder if she remembers at all,
How whispered words filled the night,
When fingers fumbled with buttons,
Searching for achingly wanton lips,
Thoughts of forever on my tongue,
Dreams dancing lightly and gracefully,
Hidden in the darkness
Around the edge of romance.

With a trembling pencil in hand,
Turning my face to the wind and rain,
I sketch wild images across the page,
Capturing her in my book of words,
Before those scraps of memory are lost,
Fading away in the Celtic mist
To hide themselves in drops of sorrow.

The explorer


The explorer reveals himself
As her secrets are uncovered,
Layer after layer peeled back,
He feels his way through the darkness,
Touching each precious fragment,
Interpreting her hidden code
To find a forgotten pathway,
Locked away by the ancients,
Who cast their mystical spells
To protect the treasure that lies within.

Other adventurers have tried and failed,
Victims of their own careless fate,
Too hasty or eager to seek understanding,
Unable to grasp her spiritual charms,
Scarring her beautiful temple
With their discordant approach.

Through the centuries she has waited
For this emboldened explorer,
Reaching out with a key to her portal,
Passing lightly across her threshold
With confident footsteps,
Bowing down to worship at her temple,
To find everlasting peace
For explorer and explored.

Swept away


High in the mountains,
In the crisp clean air,
A river is born from her tears,
Cascading from rocky peaks
To the depths of the valley below,
Gathering strength through the wild
Unknown country of her dreams,
Where she swept me away
With the beauty of her love,
A mystical child stolen from time,
Until our lips met for an everlasting moment.
She took my tremulous hand,
Clinging to her love,
As I sank blissfully to the mysterious
Depths of her waters.

For a lady


From the brown shimmering land,
Born under the deepest blue heaven,
A child of the virgin bush
Collecting wildflowers in her tiny hand,
Whispering to the fairies
Hiding under delicate petals,
Understanding their pure language and beauty.

Searching for new sights and features to describe,
The resonating puzzle of identity,
Full of youthful confidence and exuberance,
Traipsing through a minefield of contradictory expressions,
Before tumbling to the bottom of an abyss
Surrounded by chasms of silence
Finding the most beautiful reward in the darkness
Rescued by the shimmering life of three golden angels
Succumbing to the wild poet who set her
Heart smouldering with the caress of his words,
Opening her petals to the probing touch
Of his warm morning rays,
Hungry for her glistening drops of dew,
Two bodies becoming one for an earthly moment,
Souls entwined for eternity.

Mother Earth


There are things I can feel with my whole being,
When misty mountains weep icy tears,
When anger rumbles through clouds,
When I search for the sunshine of yesterday
And find you waiting for me to melt the winter frost.

At night I soar over your frozen peaks,
Warming as I gently caress the tips with my loving wings,
Lingering with a tender sigh on the breeze,
Until the seasons change and I am urged
To follow the curving slopes down
To the silky softness of your rolling plains,
Watching the first golden wattle bloom
As your branches bend with the song of the wind
Swaying gently with my warm breath,
Drawing me inexorably to your verdant valley,
Tumbling over waterfalls to expectant fields
Where I drop my seed in your fertile soil,
Lingering for a moment deep in your soul
Before soaring in ecstacy once again
And kissing the sun as it rises over your horizon.

The busker and the angel


The busker was on the corner
Singing about another broken heart
An angel floats by in a white dress
Trying to make a brand new start

‘Angel’, the busker sings,
‘I didn’t mean to make you cry,
We’re just lost souls searching for each other,
It’s time to dry your eyes,’

Later that night steam was rising from the street
A light flickers in her window
Whispers of gentle surrender
Then she falls softly beneath him

The busker is staring at the ceiling
The angel’s head is on his chest
He sings ‘Oh baby, what you do to me’
I guess you know the rest

From the library window


From the library window
I could see children playing,
Swirling colours climbing, jumping, tumbling,
Occasional squeals reached my solitary ears
As I turned another page,
Finding myself lost in the burnt desert,
Feeling the heartbreak of despair
As lonely footsteps arrive a day too late,
Holding my breath as the end draws near,
Then aching for old companions no longer there.

Later I picked up my pen,
Haltingly clumsy at first,
Moving faster as I searched the desert for you,
Guided by ideas and the rebel poet,
Before my own dreams could run me down.

Finally you were there,
Lying between the pages,
Where you had been waiting all this time,
Resting from your own turbulent journey,
Smiling as I reached for you
And we kissed.