Red Deer by Gordon Mason

Red deer graze
the Jackson mere,
cinnamon aftertones
on slow waves
of midday light.

Velvet damp, a stag
raises his head.
His twin,
a debarked willow,
stands stiff jointed.

On the wrong side
of the thyme tracks,
he turns to face a storm
that will wash
into September ditches.

As if startled
by a sudden snail,
he strides a slow ballet
into the wings,
reed curtains.


Gordon Mason, Scotland and Spain

Val Fleuri, Mougins by Gordon Mason

Spiders crawl on the laurels.
on the withered path a lizard

meditates. A furrowed face.
The leaves are nervous of thunder

crunch. An old man lifts tiles.
A warm geography on his outhouse.

His hands are fans of fine thin bones.
Clumsy thunder spaces out rainballs.

Paper thin coins mint on the footpath.
Strands of white rain chase a red squirrel.

Grisette the cat crawls through a window.
Her clogged ears retain birdcalls.


Gordon Mason, Scotland and Spain

La Versanne, Mougins by Gordon Mason

North of seven hundred moons,
they have tended their garden

like fussing birds their nest.
The garden shrinks, the hillside

grows wilder. Pines have become
crowned draughts. Death neatly

arranged. She gathers the last
pinefall in a hand shovel.

In mulberry gown and blue socks.
Eyes silver and stained. In a hand,

crisp as an autumn leaf, he brings
her a forest flower. Moonfall

lit by a taper of birdsong. Not
a patch of voice escapes his mouth.



Gordon Mason, Scotland and Spain

L’Etang, Mougins by Gordon Mason

Poplars stoop over the lake.
A random breeze mocks

the water into small waves.
Sleeping ducks extract beaks

from backs and exhale in disgust.
A twitch of swallows is pitched

off a poplar and scatters like glitter
over the water. The water calms

to hold a cup of sun on its saucer.
The poplar looks morose now

his friends have left: frustration,
resignation. Laying down his sack,

the woodcutter sets to work. A branch
falls into the water. The sun disappears.


Gordon Mason, Scotland and Spain

Meadow by Gordon Mason

We walk together through
an invisible wall, a soft bruise

of jasmine on our skins.
Scorched on her mind,

this is early morning
in the meadow when sleep

and dreams have been sold.
In the meadow where light

floods her face, love embraces
dew drops and the river

overflows with the spring rains.
In the meadow where fragile blossoms

are poised like delicate moths
amid the hum of carpenter bees.

In the meadow where the evolving day
awakens her hidden dancer within.


Gordon Mason, Scotland and Spain