Ars Poetica

I am the sound
of frost feathering
a frozen pond ...

a symphony –
the stuttering of wings;
a Sara-Orange-Tip
visiting the wind-flower

I intoxicate...like rain
drunk from a loch – tops
the purple mountains

I inspire...as does a rock
seen through the mist
of waves as they break

or thunder-drops
sculpting circles
in a glass of champagne

I am as illusive
as a saucer on a sill
full of moonshine and

I can climb
inside the mind
if I so choose...
treading deftly
its labyrinth of rooms

I am the taste
sensual and sweet
lingers on the lips
of ripe figs –

the palpable music
of the stars
as they dance
their nightly
soft-shoe shuffle

I am wordless
as the shimmer rises
from a windless beach
in high summer...

the flight of a gull
over the sea
on a cornflower afternoon

I am
poetry