Owl Hours

What a gleeful chest of stolen images,
Waking life grants us its treasures
For wondrous taking, bestows a

Swaying form: an owl astride a wire, a
Turning, curious figure above the
Abandoning dark, the dust-weight of
Night ascending slowly through the hues

Like a child’s playful hand delighting
To run fingers over coloured pencil tin,
Feel each barrel’s braille-story sing
From heaviest blue to the lightest

Daylight where we feed on afterimages,
Years string together living dreams that
Dwindle to be reborn in our owl hours.


Liquid Crystal Youth (17 December*)

On my mother’s bedside cabinet
I remember
Two metal handles: ornate, gold or brass
In colour.
Papers, books, glasses
I think I remember,
Replacing items with the
Probability of memory’s gaze.
But a box I know for sure
Was there, containing time,
The universe and mysterious green lines.
Oh magical clock!
When did I first seize upon
Your secrets,
Your gearless mastery of time?
I wanted only to control
Another box, more powerful,
Precious holder of my favourite programs,
Mighty television I kowtowed before
Your scheduled pleasures.
I don’t remember when
Those green shapes
Slotted together
Into perfect

*The second of the two “I Remember” quick-writes I did, with a touch of editing.