Cut up poem.


Every beach clothes someone’s harbour stone.

(From a travel article about the Moray coast.)



foot falls crunch in frost

through bare tree tops the first sun

makes a hint of spring

– from a prompt from Carpe Diem, with thanks.

At the window.

Cold spring evening light

A still time.


I stroke the cat’s head.

Fur swept in to flight

turns lazily in the air.

He watches it sleepily

with golden eyes.


At the foot of the graveyard

The sun drops low in the trees.

Its afterimage floats slick on this page

Like an egg yolk.