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antique-blank-camera-269810The books are too many;

I falter under their weight.

Pleading expectation;

Firm covers crave bending.


A lingering glance.

I must abstain.

Pulled too far;

Duty’s call too loud.

What I dream;

Packed tightly

Into boxes;

Saved for later.

Until my unknown debt

Has been paid.



inside of barn


I doubt when the owner built this place as a luxury hotel he ever pictured it like this. He probably never thought words like "abandoned" "ruined" and "haunted" would describe his Halcyon Hall.The children amble to the roadside

One after the other

United in their reluctance.

Too early

The sun not yet  on the horizon.

Their fall  coats too light

For the cool breath of wind.

Across the road

The old brick house stands dreaming.

The bats slowly return to the attic.

They wait.

For the light along the roadside

The warmth within

The long drive

To a room full of screaming children.





The cicadas sin???????????????????????????????g

As the sun

Dips below the treeline.

Even the wolves wait;

Hungry anticipation.

We found a blanket

Hidden in a

Trunk in the attic.

Wine wrapped


Our offering.

In the clearing

We will

Toast the

Mystery of

The dying day.






Her secret place.....The young girl stands at the crossroad.

She arrives every morning with the sun.

The shy farmers nod on their way to the fields.

Their hearts falter when,

Too early they arrive.

The sun not yet touching the horizon.

She is gone before their weary journey home.

Her memory, but a distant childhood dream;

Of the open world and the mystery of love.

For her part she waits for someone

Who lost her way.

Gone too soon

Taking the wrong path.

She will return; Heart weary or wise.

The two are one.


So she waits.

Long enough to feel the sun’s rays ‘

Warm her face.

She must go on;

The day must be survived.

‘Not today,’

The wind whispers;



Image result for tear on cheekI honour you with my determination;

No minute lost.

I dream the world is fulfilled;


We push beyond the borders;

Marked with the lines on the map.

Adorn the palace

And create.


fistFingers curl

Seeking their centre

And rest

On a solid palm.

Thumb encloses.

Warmth seeking

Meaning making.






Love’s embrace is forgotten

In rage.


Boy looking scared through the handrail of a staircaseMy mother left when I was three

I remember her at the front door

Surrounded by the winter coats

The National Geographic magazines on the shelf framed her;

Telling my father

She wouldn’t stay.

Her fear and determination

Echoed in my ears

As I looked through

The  banister.

Tousled hair, half awake-

Possibly drunk-

He dies then.

I only realize that later.




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