Pages Menu
Categories Menu

Posted by on Jul 25, 2014 in Poetry | 2 comments



Seven seasons in seven days
A child grows to hulking man,
As abed I bathe in opiated waves
Remote control in hand.

Bad becomes good when pressed
Into a wine and wafer of time
That slips in easily between breaths
And the ding, ding of the wind chime.

Perhaps from Becoming I am divorced
And arrive in the land of tir na nOg
On the golden saddle of a silver horse.
I gaze back at a sea lapped in fog.
Dim are the dying faces
The changing channel erases.


  1. Thank you! It loves you.

Post a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>