C’est seulement le vent……

This is about all the pain of renunciation. The title comes from 37 degrees le matin or Betty Blue. It is about severance. I was also experimenting with the shape of words on a page.


 Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked amongst these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.

It is not a garment that I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands…..


Kahlil Gibran,“The Prophet”  Penguin Books ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL.

ISBN 0-14-019447-9 



to take these fingers


 from the grind-stone day

and turn



to pierce the cavern of my chest



 open the fleshy fabric of this





that is me

 and part the meaty, dreamy me


and the

 sail bone

 tale bone white

 that secures


to the world


 as the seeping

dream of each


 vital blood

 drips the fingers bare


to seek



 to once again hear


 fairies on the wind

such as do tinkle

golden dew drop notes





 summon fire




 a water

 that trickles treacle over these fingers mine


 as I






 those eyes


blue within blue

 that see deep in darkest night








the faintest hope of a forgotten dawn






 hold sway

 and rend the fabric

 this fabric

 of life



 to clothe no more this day

 against the cold

 and the

 and the………


C’est seulement le vent…….


 as the fragile sea-horse dance

writes the fantasy dream

of a dreamer caged

 caged by the bars of practicalities

 else should summon the dragon breath

 to blow first fire


 and then fresh


 as the

 dew of a word



 that decorates the icing sugar dream of a

 of  a



 better world



 and all those reasons


 stake the heart

 the heart of magic and belief


 so that

 the sorry

 will be never enough

 and for such want

 dies tinker-bell


cold and afraid in the forest of the mind





now wanders on the windswept morrows of a dawn



 to rise



 for a sliver of a dream

 sliced in the timpani of the heart

 to fold such letters

as were yet to write


 as the quill of it




 over the inkwell


rid of

 rid of

 all the

 octopus wages of the past

as  a squid may yet question



 would seek to share

 the anemone memory

 brought on the tide

 as fresh and familiar as

the corralled dreams

 of those  pacific island blues


where now the torrent



 feeling, surging




 to gather fish-scales

of perfect opal

 and dress the world in ways



 gone by


as am meant to do

and damn


 the mind


for to touch the feather fabric of the dream

 with the italic



 made so

 so subtle

 and so fine


seeks the blood



 fast in every line

 as now must




  put away those swords




  take those fingers

and feed that thread

 back through the iron


 and close




less the lightning bolt rips



 all that is



and yet would still question the island theme….



 it is no more

 no more