inst all the grains of sand on all the beaches of the world.

Sobering stuff, this astronomical speculation. Each sun a
star fathering an impressive roster, its "family" in the earthy
scheme of things.

So one kid spat on his shoe and asked if a gob,
hypothetically speaking of course, could be likened to a
solitary ocean.

GHOST TALES

With leaves twitching
the autumn air
and the burnt almond
breath of landscape
heaving relief,
the afternoon heavy-footedly
walks across
evening's threshold.

II
A garment is held high
as adrenalin in the marble
glow of wintery air.
Mud puddles reflect the faery shrimp
of clouds while cone-shaped
coniferous trees perch on lawns like
starlings.

III
High above to skating and
sugar-icing rinks in misty hues,
a ginger-bread man
manoeuvres past the ghost tails of a dead
luna moth.

WANDERLUST

Who administers to my needs?

Is it the dandelion, so ant-encrusted, that
yellow pollen dangles from a shiny abdomen
suggestive of some actor's
smeared and garish make-up?

Or the cicada's song,
difficult to describe,
laundering thick summer heat?

Perhaps, then, the Red Admiral butterfly
especially active at the close of day and drawn
to wooden lawn-furniture or the exposed human limb?

If none of these
breathes vigour or tonic
through my nostrils,
what of tubs of fresh water?

Take pea-pods for crude, rudimentary boats
and children as make-shift sailors,
then they both shall spy the secrets of seas.
Bold harbours will be their cues,
astrolabes their hatchets in which
to chart many a perilous adventure.

A volume of Tom Swift and his Motorboat
tames the haggard breast,
soothes the savage beast.

A trip to the fruit-cellar
beaded with moisture
and clammy with imaginary threat,
chastens the cobweb from the
dusty ledge and sees a privet-hedge
hawk-moth trapped against the
window-pane (a dark spot pressed much like
a pirate's patch against both time & space).

If meandering and nearing journey's end,
think twice. Better red than dead. Brooding
MacIntosh apples stain a slippery floor but
the door to the orchard is always ajar.

By night, an "I And The Village" Chagall painting
draws a lad (and landscape) to stare and stare.
Thickets of wild-grape, strawberry tendrils,
two hares boxing in the meadow, a Winterspoon