I cannot see the flocks of icons
and words as they migrate,
like birds, from machine
to machine.

I imagine them,
feathered and winged,
hopping from island to island
as they journey north
to their new summer site.

Words and birds,
migrating from winter’s death
to summer’s life.
We watch spring birds
as they settle in our garden
where the grass is greener,
here, on the other side.

We care for them,
keep them from cats,
watching and wondering
as they fledge and fly.

many set out,
but not all arrive.
Not every icon
makes its way
to the new machine.




Where is time going
when it overtakes me
in its speeding car
and leaves me lumbering
along life’s highway?

It’s after five to twelve
and the morning has flashed by.
The clock is about to strike,
and the afternoon draws near.
It too will vanish, a milestone,
millstone tied to day’s neck.

I remember the old days
when the big handed pointed to XI
and the small hand pointed to XII.

Now the clock is starting to strike.
I have left the last gas station way
behind me and my motor’s failing,
and my car is running out of gas.



Kingsbrae 18.2
18 June 2017


When the gate-keeper sleeps,
who will open the gate?
Dreamland lies before us
but the gate is closed.
Where now is the gate-keeper?

How many sheep must we count
before the gate-keeper comes?
What will we do if he doesn’t arrive?
Must we just stand here and wait?

The sheep grow weary before our eyes.
They age and become frail.
Who now will count the motionless flock?
Where is the gate-keeper? Who will open
the gate that leads to the land of dreams?
Who will open the gate?