Winter walk

June 4, 2020

I am misplaced,
wake me from this winter.
I do not belong here among
buried roses and bare branches
of frozen dreams…a solitary
walk of extraordinary length
into an atmosphere of loneliness.
I belong to no one now, but my
own chilled thoughts of yesterday,
slipping in and out of me as easily
as the snow falls from the clouds…
the beauty of each flake, yet a man
can die unprotected in this world.
The mist will part as I pass,
and leave just enough room for
you to also pass, just a shadow’s
length behind me, yet there is
no more than silence here in this
wilderness of your absence…
and each day the walk becomes longer,
colder, and my breath curls and rises
to be with you, for just a moment of
respite from the inside of my heart.

Forest Walker

Snowing today

February 26, 2020

Snow outside over everything. Bitterly cold wind driving the sleety-snow against the windows. Sounds like insects scurrying down the glass.

Outside it is as if one season thrusts itself in to another. The birds still dress in black to traverse them. Gorse is flowering everywhere, yet frost whitens the moor. And now it’s started to snow –

did you see the snow falling sideways?
did you see the rainbow’s end?
did you see the flowers in springtime?
did you see the children playing?
did you see my heart being broken
when you walked away and shut the door?

Bobbie Troy

long without longings…

January 6, 2020

Year after year of dirty snow and bitter winds…houses and whole districts of people who aren’t really unhappy, but worse, who are neither happy nor unhappy; people who are ugly because they’re neither ugly nor beautiful; creatures that are dismally neutral, who long without longings as though they’re unconscious, unconsciously suffering from being alive. But I was aware of the sickness of life. Perhaps because I’m more intelligent, or just the opposite, less intelligent, not so wise, not so resigned, not so patient. Is that a fault or a virtue?

Eugene Ionesco
The Killer


September 28, 2019

Her voice whispered your name and you felt transformed. Remember that? In the street when it started to snow, the big flakes melting on the collar of her coat. Standing so close together, she set you on fire, her breath smoking in the icy air, and her lips soft on yours, and her nose cold against your cheek – you were dancing on the tip of her tongue, remember? So close, the crease of her hipbone pressed, grinding on tumescence. And you glimpsed silent, teasing laughter in her eyes…

It’s snowing outside. Looks

like Venus in a movie—like the
planetoid from Alien,

the comic book
adaptation by Dark Horse

in the late eighties. You
know what I mean.

All blue and lavender. All
black and mauve.

Imagine this world
is the world

we were born
into. All
soft and careless.

All flesh, all organs. All
eyes and

ears and
mouths absorbing

the same atmospheric gases
as the monsters

who will one day come,

the weaknesses of our compound
and so swiftly

exuberantly consume us.

Francisco Salas Pérez

Turned you wild

August 6, 2019

It had stopped snowing. Both of us were a little stir crazy, if you remember. So we went outside, and then it was as if the fresh, frigid morning air turned you wild –

‘I’m going to swim,’ you called.

‘You’ll freeze,’ I replied.

But you threw off clothes like an unruly child and leapt without hesitation in to the water. Splashed and squealed and went under. Then rose again laughing, like some primeval creature, half-water, half-ice, from a time before time.

I stood on the snowy bank watching your antics, a partly-aroused voyeur. I’ll never forget, when you scrambled out, the sight of your glistening back and your beautiful bottom…

Dreams & Moonlight

February 1, 2019

Wednesday 30th January

Last night, misty moonlight in the window. Our duvet and bedroom furniture turned milk white in this strange, uncanny light – which makes me drowsy and dull, the same feeling you have after lovemaking.

In reality: I’m the ghost of a third rate Edwardian poet trapped between dimensions, here, in the snow, on this moor. It’s sad you should have to find out this way – but that’s life, as they say.

Now, for my next trick –


A house is never still in darkness to those who listen intently; there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window, the latch rises. Ghosts were created when the first man woke in the night.

J.M. Barrie
The Little Minister

a creature of excess

January 30, 2019

Tuesday 29th Jan

Snow forecast for today across the moors. Smoky rose evening yesterday. I have written so many words, held so many lovers – I’m a creature of excess, it’s true. Greedy like a spoilt child. But the threatening, predatory sky remains mute. It doesn’t give a damn!