Her Brush With Death

frosty foliage


The frost that ruptures arteries

and makes her foliage weep

is also master of the brush

that earns true glory’s keep,

for as he paints the crimson tide

with blood as palette’s edge,

his lines mark beauty’s truest form,

and trace salvation’s ledge.


Shaken, Not Stirred

Shaken, not stirred,

with just a hint of lime –

cells in chorus racing Time,

offering  world their selfless gift,

dying while their colours lift.


The clouds had hung like damp sheets for days.

The world, its spirit wrung, sopped,

Dripped on all and sundry like an incessant broken faucet.




The soil, moved to rain-rage and faucet-fury,

Rejected the wet and would take in no more.

Homeless puddles dribbled in waves seeking refuge,

And were turned away at all ports.

Green drooped in shame, allowing tears to assemble in silence.




But even damp sheets age.

With a final rip, frayed cloud gave way

to Sun.

A breakthrough…