Poet, Writer, Media Maker, Facilitator

Epitaph to.

cloud swell ushers in the haze
occluding all but satin stone.
beat smooth by north by northwest winds
holding fast, with greater chance of rain
each lintel every crowding part
that layers slivers
down the brickwork blood and
heather sprouting cobble,
is salt as part of It Is sea.

There’ll never be a better son, than the man who died inside.
There’ll never be more love for rooms that offered shelter,

heat and life
but never love

each lintel
every mortared dart
that shivered to the passing dirge
combustive thunder tarmac triumph
drawing closer

till it breaches
groundswell turns
the latter days to history
as the masons crack
the mystery shivers down
the plaster casting
love and life to spoil