cautiously he calculated god
marvelous equations that spiralled across his page
like sterile fireworks
the mechanical gurning of the printer, his fanfare
in his youth hed drowned in fog
ankle deep in a brook
the seed inside him drank its fill
and germinated, out on that white moor
his mother had stood by the wailing wall
as the sky was buried above birds
in the ensuing shadow she longed to know
the distance to the horizon
but now she was dead, along with her faith
and the acorn to her oak
from the generation all with hearts of stone
had cracked a precious code
Tom Žorgautr lives in Wales. Most of his life he has been scribbling his thoughts down and in recent years they have taken the shape of poems. Every few days he is inspired enough to grab a notepad and pen and either climb a hill to escape the mist, or sit on the harbour wall to wallow in the thick of it.