Hungry Cave Explorers


Lying in the warmth of the feeble sun


Lying in the warmth of the feeble sun here where I belong

I revel in the tranquillity of this special place and wonder

If I should pierce the glimmering surface headlong.


I wish this serenity were broken this summer

By the chance to glimpse the wondrous moose;

I crave the chance to see that majestic wanderer.


But this thought leads me astray and I abuse

The pleasures given to me by this birdsong

And the breathing forest the season has set loose.


The intense heat troubles the horizon

The intense heat troubles the horizon,

On the left, bulls race toward the water supply

Trampling everything on their rush.

On the right, a breathless shepherd wanders

With his faithful sheepdog and his emblematic beret.

Farmers relentlessly harvest cork

Braving the furnace of the afternoon.

Meanwhile, villagers try to hide under the sparse shades

During the zenith’s hours.

Though, at the end of the dusty road, drawn

Between an ocean of olive trees

Stands a modest village

Of pure limed white walls and ochre roofs.

I stop in front of a wooden door,

An elderly woman sobs on hearing the engine noise

Yet enfolds me vigorously in her tender arms…


daffs some think you daft

WhatsApp Image 2017-04-08 at 19.56.18WhatsApp Image 2017-04-12 at 11.01.11
daffs some think you daft,
as I once did with idle eyes
now full of your dance
moon of milk ahead,
trembling herrings of the lake
seen by wild she-eyes
the crab crawls out of
the hackberry — rabbit-toothed
buds buries in leaves
spring is drenched in green
I mourn that it came so fast
and miss what I see
apple blossoms snow
mid-spring undressing
fleshly bulbs, hubs of promise
in loops elfish vapour
mounts at the edge of the wood
now- a grey chimney
pie warm by the fire
with the fir where swallows nest
across my kitchen
brother cottage birthed
from a rugged lap of gills,
nooks — a lasting bond
How many layers has the world?
bugs threading through grass —
grass at the foot of the tree —
birds darkling in purple boughs —
horizons waiting to soak up the sun of dawn —
the airplane’s white whisper awakens the wish for
—  a shooting star

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