July 7, 2006


in the darkness behind
closed eyelids
you can sometimes see
the rounded belly
flying fists
a foetus curling

only at dawn
when dews golden drops
sit glistening poised
on the perfect symmetry
of the spider’s web
can you see
the baby
between worlds


March 23, 2006

Between Them

People give all sorts of things away:
opportunities, newspapers,
old clothes, poker hands,
even their hearts.
Sometimes a baby.



There are things at which I cannot look:
waves crashing on rocks far below
my children hovering at the edge
of an abyss
just out of my reach.
I cannot look at the second it takes
to turn one thing
into another.
And the way time doesn’t heal
though they say it will.

Averting my eyes
I circle
this seeping wound,
afraid of what I might see:
a knife embedded deep within,
or rough hands tearing a baby
from its mother.

March 1, 2006

Ode to an Oak

it is still
bare branches
trace an abstract pattern
of light and dark
paint a pointillist picture

under the oak tree
it feels safe
branches curve
across the sky
sweep the ground
a giant skirt
I am safe inside its circle
how steady it is
how certain
in the midst of blaring traffic
scurrying feet
the frenzied rush of time

cradled here like this
I am sturdy and strong
roots reaching deep into the earth
trunk stretching to the sky
limbs moving in nature’s dance
cradled here like this
the centre of me is

Tall Orders

I’ve lost my voice.
I left it behind, one ragged night
when the moon didn’t rise,
to help guide me back from the dark place inside.

I need a new voice,
or even an old.
Something raw and quite fresh,
fearless and strong
that shouts out to the sky,
falls gentle as snow.

Are you a fool?
Do you embrace the absurd?
Inhabit the wide spaces between black and white?
Do you speak only truth,
stick pins into dogma,
and cry out from the depths of your soul?
If you reach towards loneliness,
like a flower to the sun,
and can sit with the stillness. . .

Then please apply.