Monday, September 1, 2014


Each velvet-soft frangipani memory
falls on a bank then washes away
with the tides into the light of the sea
hovering between a darkness and a day.

An old woman, with gnarled tree fingers
stoops to pick a handful for her apron
but waves flash one burst of gold and silver
snatch them in and then forever darken.

A sparrow pecks at mud for unseen insects
and calls the flock and cocks its head and waits
and rushing wings do come out and connect
but all the same find nothing, it’s too late.

The last ferry, with a blast on its horn, pulls
through silk-dark rivers, frangipani petals.

Friday, August 29, 2014


But I am content to be homeless
so long as I have a road,
your step alongside is happiness
who cares about a fixed address
when the seas are blue and broad?

And I am content to stop somewhere -
an island’s fine to moor,
happiness is your breath in my hair
and a moonlit track, what do I care
for numbers on floors and doors?

Monday, August 25, 2014


The cars are sparse on the roads, duly recalled
from long past weekends; maybe it's just the roads -
marked in yellow and white, become smart and broad
with added swoops of new flyovers, malls new and old.

We retrace journeys, the same roads, the same gateways
but shut fast now, like the past, a shuttered, closed sea;
the off licence across morphed to more family
friendly stores.  Sure, there is no going away

but neither a return. The breeze stirs the dark in trees
as we walk on, the fingertips of our thoughts
just brushing against each other.  You may not
walk the same island twice, cross the same river valleys.

There is no homecoming, wherever you retrace
routes, return rivers, islands.  Home is not a place.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Write...Edit...Publish...August 2014 : Taking Chances

This post is being scheduled for Write...Edit...Publish  the monthly bloghop hosted by Denise Covey, where the prompt for August is "Taking Chances".   More details on the sidebar at top-left, please do join in and spread the word.

My entry is a short verse, poetry is easier to write than fiction in a time-crunch :) and poetry is also a constant and a comfort I hang onto during avalanches of change. I am bang in the middle of one, an avalanche I mean, we have just moved to a new place and settling down is taking forever. Keeping fingers crossed for a hassle-free transition. I will catch up with you all as soon as things are sorted.  Meanwhile, stay well and happy reading/writing!

All the chances I did not take
made poems running down my spine
and shadows walking over my grave,
my moons nudged out by the skyline;

the earth-warm routes that lost their tracks
got down and dirty in the fields,
hopped-on hopped-off without a map
in grasslands and rhymes that free-wheeled

into words and worlds as vast as wind
and love as ocean-blue as songs;
the forks of swallowtail yearnings
and dreamdrops fallen diamond-strong.

Read the other entries here.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Sunbeam smiles

I will turn away from prying eyes
and screaming lines, and find a place -
may be a path that we walked once
the steps to friendship from acquaintance
and mourn alone that lost slow rise
of sunbeam smiles, shone onto my face.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Who moved my quays?


I forget.  I forget where I started out, who was with me.
Were you there? And you? It’s only now I have noticed
that I am walking alone.  Cobbled pathways in a different city.
Sea waves out in force on rocky shores shattering the dawn mist.

There is so much comfort and warmth in a group
Friends, strangers, the neat categories of acquaintance,
stifling heat of laughter.  Never the chill of holding aloof,
never walking alone with the dawn spray even once.

Every seashore, every path is precious, tender, dawn fresh
when I am alone. Hard footsteps ring on stone
clear and solitary amidst the muted, relentless rush
of wind or water. Undisturbed. Elements on their own.

I forget where I started out, but when I loop back again

I stand at that same spot with you, where the journey began.


I’m not sure if I moved off, or you dropped one by one
like leaves do by the wayside and then are dribbled away
by careless feet, by the sweeping reckless walk of women -
the brush of hems and borders. Things that heave and sway.

I only noticed when the wind blew harder into my hair
when I was thrown to the silences, when the spray struck at my cheek.
As the cold crept up my exposed skin without this barrier -
the crush of bodies absorbed into the chatter of group-speak.

All this spray that stings my face, every wind that billows
into my hair and my clothes in needle sharp profusion
every press of step on stone, every road that goes
winding alone into blinded corners - none of them feels foreign.

I’m not sure who left whom, who wanted to stay or quit
But wherever I stop, I find your face at every point of transit.