Bowness Retreat


an island of friends

in an ocean of strangers—

we gather

in this house, community-built

cathedral ceilings: two hands tipped together


slanted driftwood

caught along the shores

of counters with men in flannel dress

shirts leaning, to serve cheese on boards

carved by artisans


a refuge for the faithful

toasting glasses gold-trimmed


haunted by love

found out

like storms in the night

sworn, un-sound


in the morning—stories linger,

comforting routines transport,

back then and here again…

so many dishes washed up




Mottled Purple Globes


grapes carted out to the garage

to make wine, acquaintances

gathered in

to fill the night

with whole long conversations

under vines strung for shade

in the sun, now mimicked in the dark

of the garage—in the morning

the joy of a single sensation

arrives to transport

old friends to glistening acres




A Revival, of Sorts


a plate of sushi

served quietly in a restaurant

forbidding cell phone use,

single source chocolate,

beard oil, a smile—

the formality of a bow behind

a counter, gently

setting out coffee from Italy

stirred in no hurry—a reclaiming

gesture of a nod, taking back

time, giving space and place

to a bowl of Ramen, noodles

crafted by young men dedicated

to building micro-businesses—

surfboards, bicycles, solar panels

made to order, not manufactured,

graces said without words—

a ball of yarn wherever she goes,

personalized letters on skin,

walking to the games room—

to devote, not divulge,

the essence

of life—

In Praise of Honey


the lustre of hidden labour

enlivens the hive—


hexagons filled with gold

house hints of glory


a devoted tribe

anticipates its Queen



now slumbering, incarnating



majesty inert

is silent


with faith transparent

they continue

to store honey



she will rise


and they will

be found ready,


within the hidden hive