poem accepted for  - when language fails, exhibition in Norwich

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Sea-Fret Fogbank at Start Point

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Sea-Fret Fogbank at Start Point: Sea fret fog banks descend on this rocky peninsula, creating their own liminal space. Erasing the past and the future, time becomes a loop. Makes a  tidal island of Start Point.   Once before the fog came, maps were destroyed in the deluge of my grief. I was lost, moorless, drifting and dead calm in a place between land and land.   This time my anchor is this lighthouse built on this rock and the sounding of this fog bell. Sea fret fog descends, but yet I stand firm. I feel my toes grip the moss on the rock. Land is obliterated, without compass I am ignorant of direction, it matters not.   The fog bell sounds, a voice of low sonoration, waves of ultrasonic sound As the voice of God on the immensity of the multitudinous waters, it shatters the cedars and small houses drop into the ocean.   The fog is a gateway, a place where the veil thins. Do not step out, for I know the cliff drops raggedly to...
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Victim and victimiser When the whole world is at peace When night has fallen there is God’s face In the stars of the sky In the silhouetted land In my minds eye On the one I love On the one I ignore On the one I give On the one I give not On the one of my children On the two of my children On all of the children Is it my lot to wander gardens Walking barefoot asking pardon? I’m given a choice. Look inside Don’t be blind And Listen. Very. Quiet. Very.  Hard. Concentrate, attend, be present. The victim and the victimiser Are just words and split factions States of being irrelevant to God So forget victimhood, being a victimiser God’s love dissolves, he is the great atomiser Exploder of the false self and selves Clear the decks, throw books from the shelves. God is all in all I am who am Yahweh.
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Step it Out Mary: The Augustine Steward House

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the Augustine Steward house 1530, Tombland Alley, Norwich Step it Out Mary: The Augustine Steward House   Mary do not step it out tonight.  My fine daughter, stay in with us instead. Here in this house. Please, for the Love of All That is Holy, do not show your legs to that country man. Norwich is a ghost town and the deep stream running by has been diverted past the Steward House.   It is your wedding day, pretend someone else is getting married, instead put on this grey work dress, wander from room to room, make yourself busy. Although the moon is high it is not yet midnight, stay here with us.   Do not go down to the water with the Soldier Boy, no matter what he promises. Stay here with us. It is not worth drowning yourselves over.   The Augustine Steward house is hushed and dark in midnight shadows. There is no music, the fiddle band has left, turned away at the boarded-up door. Her Father, his rage played out, lies voicel...
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