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FOR    SEASONS​

W i n t e r - F o o t h o l es


​​Never mind counting
The grains of sand on a distant beach,
How many flakes of snow did it take
To raise the horizon, in one silent night,
Halfway up the cottage kitchen windows,
Framing the silled, discount poinsettia
On a purest white canvas.

After I open the draft-ridden door,
Shovel aside, with paced strokes,
The feather bed of first-fall
I will hoist the compost pail, and
Gloved and mukluked
Puncture a track across winter’s skin.
Tip the rotting fruits from warmer climes
Into the squat, black plastic,
council-sanctioned compositor.
 
Returning, slightly quicker this time,
Along my own footholes
Hemmed by the slurred steps
Of the night’s trio of deer,
 A hungered trinity, making their rounds
Beneath the late-night show, the northern lights. 

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 A  Glimpse  of  the  Future

You're the ghost in my bathtub
You're a ghost in my bed
You're a ghost at my kitchen table
Where once we broke bread

You're the ghost at my front door
That comes in then goes out
You're a ghost that once was flesh
I could wrap my arms about. 



  • Home
  • What's Phil up to
  • MUSIC
    • J u k e B o x
    • B e a t l e s S h o w
    • N ot e w o r t h y
    • R I v e r b e n d >
      • Making Waves
  • WORDS
    • BOOK STORE >
      • Fields of Vision
      • An Acre of Time
      • Beneath My Feet
      • River Song
    • Poetry
    • Higher Thoughts
  • Works In Progress
  • Contact
  • Blog
  • GALLERY
  • Christmas Story