they say their prayers here.
white marble stone arches
glow dutifully radiant,
imprisoning the crescent moon
like a painting of a holy night.

sunsets-ful of marigold
stripped mindlessly
into bruised petals for
a charlatan’s offering, wilted,
retreat into warm shadows.

pale staircases shimmer,
rich with obligatory faith
and schooled adoration,
ringing bawdy laughter amongst
idle scrutiny of blasphemous attire.

intricate shadow of branches
of a broad and blessed tree
in the halo of a generous moon,
flow across a courtyard
in rivulets of darkness.

they chant their empty verses
here, dizzy amidst scented oil lamps
that fade into coarse daylight,

a little girl, barefooted, belled anklets,
peeks through a rift in the mob
to study a house crow pecking
at an abandoned broken coconut.

T. E. Pyrus


flecks of pure morning light
accent her coral-red cloud feathers;

when she unfurls her wings,
embracing the leisurely warmth
of a new sky, golden
wingtips touch skylines
at sunrise and sunset.

shimmering like mist
they span horizons;
anxious winds breathe
with every rise and fall;
fledgling storms wake quiet
in spaces between bright feathers
in soft silver pools of shadow.

sprightly lightning she adorns
like ornaments of laughter,
diamond rain, she sprinkles
on this burning land,
she decorates nighttime
in a gown of mauve dreamlight,
she bears on her forehead
in a starry circlet
a new and ancient moon.

T. E. Pyrus



Can you hear
the Bell

When you are lost in that book
of a stranger’s dreams
and memories of a distant lifetime,
recognising a piece of your own self
on every page, can you feel it
reverberating on your fingertips
when you trace faded words
of hope, and watercolour paintings
of joy and precious tears?

When she shows you
her first paper boat,
fresh white, with shy, joyful pride,
when she asks if you would
come with her to the waterside
to watch it drift into a new sunset-
greying softly in golden waters,
can you hear it in that silence,
rich with vulnerable excitement,
in the moment when you tell her
you’d love to?

When an old man, dressed in his best
dusty brown coat limps, smiling,
past you on the sidewalk,
can you feel it in his trembling hands;
can you see it in his newfound grace;
can you hear it in his tired,
gentle voice, in the steady rhythm
of his well-worn walking stick?

Can you hear it resonate,
like true laughter that rings clear
with your exasperating humour,
your heartful of love,
through the merry chaos of your mind
with what makes us

T. E. Pyrus


a three-legged table leans
against faded wallpaper
beside silent window
trembling in candlelight.

golden dust-faeries
play hide-and-seek
in shadowy folds
of threadbare curtains.

an old dreamer’s bookshelf,
brittle-paper and vanilla,
broods lonely, uncreaking
on yellowed mosaic tiles.

an assortment of paperweights:
spirited chess-pieces,
hand-painted pebbles
watch over unfinished letters.

a polaroid picture of joy,
timeless vows, gazes fondly
at the dark side of
their dream-tinted globe.

T. E. Pyrus


her pale, sweatered wrist
smudges a pastel orange sky
on snow-white paper, tucked
beneath her newest masterpiece.

her other hand rests on
the pencilled birds,
like arching ‘V’s,
that fly through a fluttering
blue paper-sky and into joyful wind.

a frown of blissful concentration
brightens her gentle face
when she blends in
shadows on mellow plains
of purple snows on mountainsides.

i idle beside her
on an old and weary wooden bench
beside our tranquil lake
where distant hum of traffic
sounds like lost music
from a perplexed stranger’s dream,
and she swings her little legs.

wind, inconstant wind
that ruffles her sunlit hair,
paints the clear blue waters
a soft, shimmering silver.

her vibrant pastel world,
seeps into my partly-cloudy sky
and rich freshly-trampled grass,
while i savour the crisp
spring-winter chill
on a wistful afternoon
as it blurs into a reverie.

T. E. Pyrus


she sneaks in through our open window,
barefoot on the starlit floor,
quiet in mild summer wind,
like whispered secrets of a child
and dew drops on fresh grass at dawn.

she paints our whitewashed wall
with fleur-de-lys and window grills
in clear shadow, then wanders
through the resting home,
humming like sweet springtime rain;
when she traced grey names of every book
with pale and gentle fingertips,
they glittered fresh in crystal frost,
as if winter lost her way again tonight.

she peeks into each mirror-
now braiding a dream into her hair,
now fixing a star on her shoulder-
then hides tiny clouds of spare laughter
on the ceiling, behind the couch,
in between coffee and breakfast time,
and silent afternoons.

she climbs onto the windowsill,
her wistful smile lit softly
in waking twilight, she steps
onto a purple breeze
and floats into another perfect night.

T. E. Pyrus