Poetry, for me… is about moments… sometimes creating them… sometimes remembering them. They are always there.

Pillowed up in my room,
summers heat
still on my back.
A long night of
soul -recalling blasts.
That turn into
a dull grey dawn.
A few turns to the left,
and a strain of the air.
And there you are……
No longer a muffled cry.
A wildness, pure and fine.