Tag Archives: magic


ellipis blinterBetween Tolmount and a hidden line,
I measure an unmarked phrasing of
Moor enfolded in highland sky,
Punctuating the alban laid,
As slow as still, but not quite.

Three hares birl a bonny dancer’s arc,
Lofting at an uncertain range to
Gaze unfazed through spindrift blinter.
They outflank my wallows with
Feral graces as quick as magic.

From waypoint stone to snow moled mark,
Steady as a better man’s faith,
I will hold my bearing true.
I will dot-n-dot-n-dot this beloved in-between,
Until the passage returns to ground.

I am a tent.

Ptarmigan in the rain. Driesh, 8th May 2014

Ptarmigan in the rain.
Driesh, 8th May 2014

Rain on my hood.
I am well seated by Driesh’s trig.
Light rain, full waterproofs, dry.
A birthday donder.

Eyes shut there is only sound.
Staccato drops.

Light defies a hinted snooze, and
I drift to a gentle trance.
I am a tent.

Ten again.
Camped in a garden realm.
I await Marco Polo’s return,
Hooves thrashing the steppe,
The quiet creatures of the woods,
And the almost tangible possibility of magic.

Tented air aromatic with the astringent
Of newly printed ink,
An anticipated summer special,
Mingled with pattering scent of fresh rain.

Eyes closed,
I breathe slow and quiet,
and listen to time stopping.

I am a tent.