I was thinking of visiting you
By now you will be mystified by leaves
Haunted by squirrels and small slow maggots
Fingering and boring into the sainted bark.
I feel you in the sunset when the shadows
Skitter over my hands and upturned face.
In the night I hear your low thrumming breath
The way of sleeping which is simply rusting
Composting dreams into mole hills.
Bracken sprays its spores across the humus
The deer rise astonished
Their bright muzzles wet with nuzzling
The mush of viridian and sap green grass.
I truly think the forest took you.
I swallow the juice-truth and it neither comforts
Nor disturbs; as in a deep wisdom
Or a mournful song, or the peet-peet
Of the little owls, or the spread of light
From a lit orb; I could go on
Weeping into the chasms of my heart
Stumbling along word paths
Searching in all the godly places-
The stupid lost loving little life of a beetle.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018.
Picture shows detail of a winter scene by the artists and poet




Your hair that I hid in
A membrane of silence
Vibrating the fuzz
On a moth
O kingsman
Can I speak to you?
By all that is thin, shaded, worn
Ancient and frayed
I will search the gold air
Unwinding the thread
Until I say the wrong thing
Why do you not stop?
At the next corner
He hesitates and disappears.

Veronica Aldous 2017 all rights reserved
Photograph ‘Orb’ by Veronica Aldous

Orienteering the Underworld

butterfly and doll.jpg

Orienteering the Underworld

With a box of tricks and gleaming sextant
I can visit you
Time being the limit of my peregrination
Stepping over mandrakes and staring into deep pools
Is a fine measured business, one that I learned long ago
The art of losing things and forgetting are ancient skills
That you mastered with ease
I was always good at finding your spectacles or your pills.

I am sure I can manage with this compass and torn map
That I finagled from a side drawer in a dream –
Somewhere in your bedroom I am still sleeping
To the sound of the kettle boiling in an empty room
You stepped out for a moment, for a cigarette, maybe?

Never to return.

Veronica Aldous 2016 All rights reserved