Time has moved all elsewhere on
Yet here I still remain
Rooted to the very spot
Screaming out your name
With arms raised to the heavens
Man’s litter at my feet
Squirrels nest within my hair
Standing on the street
Perpetually I’m killing time
The way that Beckett knew
Not bothered with the loomers’ line
Just waiting here for you.



Here where light’s shadows
Languidly lengthen
From sun scarcely rising
Out of waxing slumber
Roan shivers at the touch of words
Spoken by the wind
Where Sycamore give way to hues
Of week old broccoli
Up on the hill
Maple flushes red in anger
At the change
Raging gloriously
While discarded vestiges
Of bygone glories
Congregate in inviting mountains
There to be scattered
Like bones by phophets
That we might read the future
In their fragile forms.