the observer is a necessary
part of the landscape
feet mired in sludge of belonging
intrinsic faecal matter
mould of mortal detritus
to the matted

the auditor makes the sound of the forest
a communion
with the bark
lichen & fungus
the light
a droplet
into tactile solidity
of a rainbow small
enough to fit in the closed palm

the bird is a bird
the thrush is a thrush
the mushroom is a mushroom


High in the hill country
peewits parting the air
that mournful cry

rabbit trails in heather
& changing weather
across valley slopes. Hope

peters out like pattering hail,
a taste of bilberries not yet ripe
clinging unwanted to the tongue.


I have been dreaming
that my teeth are falling out.
Freud would attribute this
to anxiety
about incipient impotence .
I think it is because
my teeth are falling out


smoke from a steamer
blends into brown fog
men in duffel coats
wrap clumsy fingers
round steaming sandwiches
of fish grilled on the deck
of the boat that caught them
as they wait for the ferry
that will take them to work

here people have different
expectations, gods
a different way of writing
the same brands of soft drink
holes in the pavement
an unwary or unlucky person
could lose
their life in

they have caverns measureless
to man & an economy
of the kind that in some places
leads to hardship & lust
for war

they are happy & they are miserable
their carpets are the finest & their tea the sweetest

nothing resembles anything but itself


admire the architecture, crossbeam
& corbel, mullions of a window
only internal
trowelscrapes for fragments
of significance
nothing without
the text
has integrity, responds
to nothing beyond

the beam is not a homage, it's a beam
that holds the splaying walls from falling out

words without reference
/pour concrete, pound piles/
word made dialectic
/life & geology in primal churn/
word made apparatus
/beauty of the fractal whirr/

farmyard cockerel
wind in the pines
a machine buzz


the voyeur is a necessary
part of the experience
toothache in the theatre
integral to the performance

the trees which were heavy with fruit
are now bent with snow
breaking boughs
echoing cracks
in unpeopled wilderness

you take the knife you cut meat with
to perform an operation on yourself

it is not the sentiment of sunset appals the senses
it is the savour of the earth
at the cool end of a hot day

the sky is bruised & purple
your fingers clipped & raw
the blood tastes metallic in your mouth

then be not afraid, for there is no judgement

what is self-evident is often untrue


no aerial reconnaissance
reveals anything
the world is flat & we
are off the edge
or between alternate particles

the sign on the gateway
is clear enough at least
/Nothing Familiar/
/Is Admitted

   Aidan Semmens 2009