This Iron Wine

To Delia -1- You got a name baby-girl six weeks old and how sweetly clumsy your three-year old brother boy calls your name and caresses you All do smile make faces noises voices do not recognize keep far out of sight oblivious that there is... That there is a skeleton growing inside of you and inside of him That there is a skeleton inside of us all waiting inside of us all that-will-not-vanish by nature so quickly Bones, bones...oh wonder mountains of bones where all life and

I like to see my blood from time to time, always there, hardly seen the heavenly 36.5 degree juice. The good old iron-wine, circling this body

This curious little Monday morning, sticky-warm and flowery and bright, in the Via di Ripetta near Piazza di Popolo in Rome, I passed by a 'Salmoneria'

Early fish, well before sunrise over the French Alps, 6:15h maybe. Beautiful pike, round 70cm, slightly frazzled fins, bless you Lac de Serre-Pencon, northern shore. Thank you fish-tribe, brother pike!

Only weeks ago, the horse chestnut tree was darting his long bony limbs towards an ash-sky. Now a thousand broad tongues lick air and sunlight and a bright-green globe

I was about to cross that bridge to cross...the river, when I saw her coming from the other side. She was a girl of maybe ten

It starts like that: a strangely touching, heavy-breath intuition of tightness, a tense stretching over edges and surface, in angles. Something supple rubs against something dry and rigid like a childs' finger on oak bark

Are we not wriggling along like tadpoles in a pit? Prone to dry out with it, under this relentless sun, before gills turn into lungs?

Caught a faint trace of smell upstream, crossing the creek in a narrow bend, stepping on humpbacked rocks. Followed it

Suddenly they appear in the fading twilight of these late warm summer evenings, from wherever but you see them come - the large hovering nocturnal moths

He drives out onto the peninsula, out onto and all along endless Inch Beach for half a mile in his rickety station wagon. Eamon

It was early morning. Early morning it was and all quiet. In that kitchen where I was, getting ready for work and filling my water-bottle and lunch-box when

And the birch and the dew in the webs and me too, and the scent of fresh split fir, drawn from its essential depth awakened