Of Time and Loss

To what horizons are we headed for

When four walls close? All day I see the grey

Blurred patterns, feel the tightening, reddening sore

Left by a single cuff, without a way

To cut the bonds of long, heavy hair, or

Make sense of narratives without an end.

So I will travel far to distant plains

Through storms and sands and seas and swamps and rains


To where Colossi roam on grassy land –

Those sentinels who stride like oaks, with moss

For hair and burning lamps for eyes. They stand

Before the gilded gates of time and loss

Where seven sages sleep by hourglass sand.

But when the sages wake they call to me:

“Thy sword, lift up thy sword unto the light

And blest this hea’enly sword will be, young knight!”


To Outlands I will ride and seal my fate.

Predestined paths of flame shall sear and come

To make the barren realm disintegrate

In fire and ash. Diablo rises from

The smoky pyre; his hot desire to sate

Eternal hunger fuels and endless fight.

I face oblivion. An hourglas turn

Will bid me briskly once again return


To rolling hills. But every blade of grass

That shines too vividly, and every swing

Of sparkling sword, I know, will sing of farce

The more I undertake this task. Oh bring

Your story in my temporal life to pass

And give me purpose set apart from my

Own vain desires. A sword of Spirit I

Must wield beneath a vast and boundless sky.



A solitary silhouette

Still marks the place beyond the set.

But in the sharp blink of an eye

The room floods; the spill of light

Ignites hungry hands to spin

Public secrets. This delicate

Thread of connections forms

A web as vast as a chasm.

Share. Like. Comment.

Shades with faces commune in a

Bodiless dance, a dance, a dance

We orphans learnt at the hands

Of as strange deity. These spelt-out

Prayers are offered with no less faith

Than certainty. The eye closes.

A black face stares back blank tonight,

The last reflection of the night.



“Will you give up?” they ask. “Or will you try again?”

Light explodes into my dreams, ethereal and blinding.

It’s time to wake up.

*          *          *

I opened my eyes to the familiar wooden rafters arching over me as the light diminished into the grey glow of dawn.

Morning. I stretched and yawned, the unyielding mattress beneath me barely sinking as I sat up, fully-clothed, to leave last night’s nightmares on the pillow where they belong.  Continue reading

Sunset’s Song


I slide into the living room and close the door behind me. Like clockwork, I step into my slippers waiting on the floor, remove my tie and sink into the armchair. The television stares back at me from the other side of the room, gleaming as if recently polished. Most of the things in here are gleaming. The window-panes, the fireplace, the old piano. They all sparkle in a conspiratorial manner, attempting to distract me from the fact that actually, the telly is never on, the fireplace hasn’t been lit in months and the lid of the piano is always shut. I wish there was a bit of dust around here sometimes. Something to show the mark of time, the mark of life. It’s like a showroom – perfect but empty, and I’m just part of the display.

What happens next?

Sand between my toes


All year round I shook out towels,

Unpacked bags, dropped pebbles in bowls.

But dust keeps dancing across the glass

In golden moats ‘round castles and holes


Where dunes still murmur all our secrets,

And pools of light still shift in form,

Where salty hair cascades in curls

And skin feels weathered, gritty, warm.


And once again I taste the spray

Once again I smell the air

Once again I hear the whisper

Once again I feel you there.