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Dog Latitude §6

From dawn to dusk,
the pewter silver-grey
of clouds that haven’t
aspired to the sky.
We walk inside them,
drawing onto our faces
the unrained drops.
We’re comfortably dislocated
from horizons; paths ahead
are vanishing points lost
in feathers; red kites
whistle the fields’ edges.
I walk, you run the curvature
of this known, unknown world.’

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more like treading water
here in the slack pool of night
or a long walk to nowhere

movement happening
but no behind or before

like didi and gogo
my trudge is all
on the one black spot

there's a sadness humming
in the skylight corners
a wind song looking
for a tune
it's all melisma

my blues
for busted sleep
and burgled dreams
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Dog Latitudes §22
Some see God
in the suddenness
of the sun
out of a cloud.
Surprised by
an event so much
bigger than
the monotony of
thought (the telling
of the same
old story of
doubt and fear),
they glory in
this brief gift
of external light.
For me
when caught
I understand
in the moment
that the light
that matters
is always
bright within
and the shadows
are of your choosing.

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Our band MoorbyJones just laid down the basic tracks for a song called Light is a Story. It’s to be the next single so a good deal of construction needs to be done over the next few weeks before a fully embellished and mixed version is ready. The lyric is mine, written in free verse format, and the tune (to be added when the full version is mixed) is by my songwriting partner Steve Moorby.


I dreamed I was a bird
amongst a multitude of birds
and like bread rising
the sun rose over the fields

I dreamed I was a fish
amongst a tenement of reeds.
Green was my truth
and I glided past the fisherman’s fly.

I dreamed I was a tree at night
under a sickle moon,
drawing down the silver
into my place of deep gold.

Light is a story
taken from the fire.
Remember if you can
the chapter of the single flame.

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My shadow could be any age,
sharpened to a T by
a stare-me-down sun.
My sideways self gliding
across the straw and chaff
tells me as we walk of
how things were, or how
things might have been.
Like skidding down a slope
on scree, laughing, breathless,
like a fool, or floating,
masked face down, watching
tiny silver fish amongst
the casual treasures of Salamis.
Or watching your back
from a high window,
your right hand lifting
a lock of hair as you climb
into the cab, the last cab.
Shadow blessing, shadow curse,
shadow, my dance partner
until the sun’s at rest
and they turn out the light.

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The Barley

When I climb the slope
of Bottom Field, I run
my open palm through
the stalks of barley.
The little cobs are green
and the stems are
a ghostly blue and
those grouped antennae
are just junior whiskers.
This multitude, though young,
has buried the hill
and is its own horizon.
I shall come down the slope
of Bottom Field some day
in the coming months,
heading for home. And
I shall run my brown hand
through the barley stalks,
now a dusty gold, each
ear a dream of bread, each
stalk a dream of chaff and
we shall know each other.

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