I look ahead, what do I see?
stragglers on the path
of my parents' generation
as they top that distant hill.

The same hill which just
came into view
as the boomer mob approaches it
on the well worn twisting route
which remembers each step
each divide and stride.

And now I, a straggling boomer
turn to look behind
and to my surprise I see
sons and daughters looking at me
just as I looked at those ahead
just as all have looked
and always will

I greet her. She nods, Slowly, Imperiously.
Familiar, yet restrained.
I know her moods as she does mine.
She inclines to my touch.. softly...
We sense the change that is each other.
She is constant, always welcoming,
But with a newness, a freshness, that makes me smile.

bygone echoes
keys moving rhythmically
saturating kitchen walls

odd globe secreting a stingy glow
while black ribbon smears worn ideas

your locution impeccable
assuaging a thirst conceived by barren heritage

each numinous page
moulded my threadbare soliloquy

now across a pale light screen
orations still exchange

though each birth now sterile
soundless

it still grafts new shoots
but weaker
than the underwood

Great bloom of love,
like the flush of colour
that blushes mountains in the evening light,
its sudden burst of realisation
entertained in silken robes of red and pink,
as the sun sinks ever deeper into the horizon's brink,
eclipses the senses,
darkens the must of scented breath,
all panting like the fangs of fox and badger,
tongues hanging out, night 's animals
that burrow far beneath the ground, in mounds
that, Venus-like, resound with pants and gasps,
as flowers push up through the loam to light,