Cut up poem.

image

Every beach clothes someone’s harbour stone.

(From a travel article about the Moray coast.)

Advertisements

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.