Authority is the unmistakeable tone in the voice of a true writer.

December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.

That icy glass reduces your beauty - dims your fire - let me be your mirror...

I love it when the dark bottle of night spills out, and the Moon writes in chalk about us.

You think so logically... like a hawk soaring - I feel so chaotically... like a kite without a tail plummeting to earth.

Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.

I make no apology about stirring the depths - every human longs to swim under water and see what lurks beneath