Saturday, September 27, 2008


Writing is a way of surviving, of dealing with the world, of trying to get an objective perspective on the in your face.
The poetry here is not lovely and warm and furzy but then the title should have told you that.

Tracks, J.R.McRae

The sand wavers near the water,

Pushed to the brink

Where tracks wash out.

Skin slides down the elements tracking the sun,

Cloth waves loose

Flirting with bodies beneath.

He’s different.

Up on the grass

He lets the wind cut through his shirt,

Long sleeves to hide the tracks

Where he’s been.