Stern Words

I sit at the stern of my sailboat.
Ducks float here and there. I
speak to them, and they to me, but
in duck tongue. So, no luck there
but still the night is magical.
Masts tick-tock like metronomes,
and the lap of water
against the hull whispers “satis est…

Night lights are so soft and the
sounds are scrumptious. The
rock of the boat is hypnotic.
Here at the stern I am
speechless, and
the word heard for those
with ears to hear is:
“Listen.”

This Nose Hunts

Not quite awake, my
body drags behind
my foggy mind.
I am dull,
here in the
dungeon of
night: my sight
is off, and a muffled
ring shrouds my hearing.
The silence of the house is
deafening – even the clock
is at sea.

But the grape on my
tongue tastes like the
troth of life and my
noses scouts about:

here, morning’s toast
there, yesterday’s curry

racing round the house, like
a cat on the loose, not to
be caught. But this nose hunts,
and now, now, I smell God:

first like baby’s skin
then like the air of a storm

taut, and sharp, like cheese blue.

Formed in the Deep

Night,
you haunt me,
hunt me and
spear me. Through
my chattering heart
your lance pierces
my island of dreams.

In the geography of the dark
you try me, you play me
with a joy here,
with a fear there.
Now my passion is
pushed beyond
boundaries.

If only I could steer
these dreams…
what pleasures
might visit the night!
I would eat at a sacred grove;
I would consume a canyon;
would devour mountains; and
take in each valley, feeding
my heart with desire.

But no, this is not to be.
Now is not the time for daydreams.
The hard work of night beckons, calling
me to be its matter, formed in this deep.

The Centre of the Night

Sound weighs more in
the centre of the night –
every tick,
each tock
of clock now
a clang. And
the shutting of a
door becomes a
slam: no argument
needed to rid the
air of peace.

But my eyes
strain in this time;
and when I
squint, what
was fuzzy does
not clear, but only
disappears.

And You, God, in night
whisper invisibly –
to great effect.

Not Far from Night’s Silence

Not far from night’s silence
is a horizon where
darkness weeps
for joy at
dawn’s
birth.

So delighted is eve at day’s
break that she gladly
dies in nativity
but even as
labour’s pains
become acute, death
is denied its sting because
day promises to die
in turn: daughter
to mother when
dusk in
silence
nears.