That Way, For Him, Adventure Lies: extracts from The Floating Harbour

The seagulls, too: they screech in semi-reliably recorded history.

The Hunter Sits: extracts from The Floating Harbour

Such keen eyes, such keen resolve.

I watch her and she’s wistless as she weaves and waves again.

P’rhaps we won’t stop anymore, now there’s no space – seat or floor.

I have, these recent years, fallen, somehow, in to writing about Bristol over and over again.

FOTABTFOTN.

It is a song of poems – different parts in different verse throughout a night exchanging stories.

Let me/it, at last, then, rise, buffeted by sound-waves.

The breeze feels like an echo of a cold too cold to bear, as the gull glides on its currents and the waves of winter light.

Each of us with tales ‘n layered lives to be disclosed…

Pied white ‘n dull-green ‘n shim’ring black, treasuring the trove you’ve gathered.

The road’s become community.

Poetry, prose…

The orange-breasted kingfisher keeps the wall in feathers.

I should (someday) write while on that journey.