i tarry, forsooth

silver icing. frost on browning autumnal field.

i dare not trod upon the pristine dew,
it would sully her name - i explain.

surely the feel of bare grass under foot
is worth the initial pain?

The long drive to work

My orange -yellow tree, on the bend in the road,
is completely bereft today.

cold Autumn has him defenseless.

but he will stand through winter, proud.
and waiting.

babies

"So how's she doing, mum?

She's been an angel, doctor!

Has she been weeing and pooing, then?

Oh, my word! lots!! and its green!!! "


Thats been my morning mantra for the last few months now.

cooing, crying, cuddly, cantankerous, startled little creatures.

the kicking and screaming evokes paternal aaws and oooohs...

the gurgly gobbledygook is described gorgeous...

they regurgitation at will ... and they poo for england.


there's something magical about how she will suck at my little finger when i stick it in her mouth. it's a little trick i use to keep her occupied, while i listen to her tiny heart go lub-dub.

her little fingers grab mine in a grip that is heart rendingly needy. and she yells in reproach when i flip her over my arm to inspect her.

its the little boys that are a worry. they can aim very accurately when they wee. he ll go straight for the front of your shirt, or your face.


i love their littleness. the little fingers. the little toes. the little bat ears.the little red nose.

and then they grow up.

come spring

the birches,trembling as they remember
the snow, silver and gray

lonely wind, seeking shelter,
rattling this empty postbox

thoughts, of you: tumbling,
hurrying out of the cold

chill running down, lick,
bite, under my collar

flood rushing to my face.
you will not be so close, come spring.

going away

Let me smell you today,
as if the moment were to end.
your breath, humid,
languid, in my throat
it must last long enough
for my lips to approve.

i believe in always
when i am with you.

Shock absorber

Solitary white flower beside the gate;
stem broken by car in reverse.

I hope the sun comes out today.

You cant have roots, and wings.

Its a strange feeling, being away from home.

I'm not sure though, what i mean by home.
is it a place i know? is it the folk i love? is it a belonging?

I love the smells and the sounds of India. I miss the strange sights. And stranger still, the things you don't see. The underlying ethos, the overwhelming mass.

Where a man must fend for himself, he must survive. He expects to work hard, he strives to provide, his honour is sacrosanct, and his Karma defines him. And he is corrupt.
A woman is treated with deference; she is worshipped and revered; and also is not equal.

I am one when im home. I am king. and i am nobody.
i dont stand out. and i am banal.

These are my roots. i am entrenched. i cannot escape it.
It shapes me, and it has moulded me. and i am proud of it.

But yet, i think to myself, i love to fly.
there is a world that beckons. there are people to discover.
there are ways to understand. there are points of view.
there is different. there is new.
there is a universe of experience waiting to be asked.

I am what i am because thats who i ve grown to be.
but is that all that i'm meant to be?

You cant have roots, and also have wings, they say.
I want to disagree.
I want.