THE SWEETER SONG

  Dominant bird rings on repeat his call in the late afternoon- arriba, arriba, arriba he appears to echo whilst other feathered fellows join in his mash-up as if they all know the price is now time sensitive- this has become their season to shine- they sing and we sit in their shadow, the quiet […]

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THE NEW NORMAL ROUTINE

  Input- daily. Early morning. Wake up to bird call and input ideas for the new day. Run. Write. Weights. Wash. Garden. Grass. Weeds. No Smoking. More Chopping. Manic. Now move indoors. Pottering. Pacing. Painting and onto poetry. Moving out again from bedroom. Old room. Once far room. Cold room, where someone died once, before […]

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BIRD SONG

  I stroll in soft sundown across the cushioned grass, the earth a pillow I never stopped to consider, I consider going in, inside to where the light looks neat and named but a bird calls from a branch I cannot see, sight comes in second after his song- soft, slow and cycling back on […]

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ORIGINAL SONGS

  Here now, flown back to nest since moved in absence, these streets hold no shadows of my former shyness, they do not call me by nickname, or your name. I was never open enough then to be called by your name, their name, his name, back then when there was no him and barely […]

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A SINGLE DAY IN THREE PARTS

  Part 1 Morning comes with birdsong these days instead of street cars and sirens, Blue Tit and Yellow Hammer next to daisy, daffodil and dandelion as the garden springs like never before. Part 2 Afternoon is found at the far end of the near field because distance is dearer now as we take slow […]

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FINDING OUR WAY

  I woke early, attention tethered to the bird call as they build their nests within the walls we once lit fires between. Regardless of season we must all find ways to shelter and survive. I ran early, out into the open morning where air was still yawning and I thought about sleep and what […]

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IF ONLY

  We are land birds, bound birds, we have made homes in twisted trees growing hallow, growing hard. We are land birds, ground birds, we have been deluded by illusions growing careless, growing cold. We are land birds, drowned birds, in a dying desert growing doubtful, going dry. If only we had been sea birds, […]

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A PANICKED PULL

— Beat. Break. Beat. Break. — Is there a monitor of these movements                 that shift beneath the skin? A rummaging within the ribs. I hear a broken bird                 beating against the bars of its cage, broken. – All organs […]

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