Blowing briskly along lanes

breezes steeped in ether–


praise the salient

roll of canopies

which hold place over

indented terrains

and the influx of stark

last calls

reach down

to precious metals

with Earth's layers,

and saying that creatures

cannot see the high tide coming

is presentiment to unfurl the past

steeped in rich liquor

of savoured tempestuous

cadences riding high

so clearly beyond the plain

yet pulling behind a ton

of netted radiance.


The pleasures of enticement

accumulate in the chest

and locked away as treasure

until noon-time comes

and all convene for the opening.


Providence personified

in perpetuity

as clove stitched in the blanket

and seeming to waft

as lace and eyes

spy the highest particle

of porphyry's trade.

And children lick their fingers

when eager for the sweet

vestige of heated meetings

of substance circulated

only in the tub of sighing home

seeing loaded knowledge

of emphatic nurturing

and parsimonious interests

in carted lasting parcels

of emperors' raiments

which are no longer required.


Perfection and indigo beauty

sail through the porous path

towards infiltration

into praying monks

so that jewels

sparkle in the dark

and the tangent tricks goals

from their consummation

sparking righteousness

into trembling

on the edge of the curb

unable to cross the road.


And Providence herself

listens to the barking calf

and lies low in the mournful coast-

lines with moaning

mist-filled holes–

collagraphed patience

hand-engraved shame

as the pistol snaps sharp

through the glass-lined

presence of turquoise


held and depleting

their conscience

to breath-taking horary times

conspicuously open

to the prevailing winds

laughing the ghastly harvest

into proven tables

hedging their bets

that if only they could hold on to the rituals

then all the schemes hatched

in nebulous stained beds

will profit the mesmerised idol

curiously steaming up

as ho-ha the last laugh

passes the craft work.


Renegades always praise

starving patriarchs

as if they were the norm

turned round and elevated

onto the stage

in which each precious private plate

is served up with nothing

except the source.


And underneath the table

is consumed the real meal

half past midnight

but "better late than never"

never-known unholy stokers

still keeping coal burning

on the raging fire

and menacing ridiculous


straight down the line

Hades sisters and brothers


pressed steel stitches

keeping them together.


And another consummation

takes place

as clocks stop

batteries expire

and the power is imploded–

reading the meter

becomes impossible

without a magnifying glass.


Heaven has turned into spent questions

and melted into eternity's embrace,

ever loading the braced

pillows puffed up for comfort

ready for preferably requests

for peaceful breath

and sighs subside

and the breeze gently rises

so that in between

there is a moment

of astonishment

as meeting unbelief ceases.


Hail many parochial preachers

in all their exalted manes

of clairvoyant praise.


And the gaze ahead

and the outstretched hand

accepting the gift–

stringent conditions were placed

on this special relationship

until no-one bore more


than presidents of republics

ingrained in the bone

and no-one could see

the pressure placed on privacy

until fire burned

from within

and forced an evacuation

to a homestead

with heart's blood pulse

and warmth of cherished taste–

nothing ever wasted.

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