Stick Dance I'm caked in history, upside down on your street, my silhouette cutting singers in black and white, dizzy between the trees, amassing description. I come clean, blow...

      Writing About War   How do you write about a war? The answer is simple. You don’t.   Instead, you write about men walking in a line. It is a long line, with many men,...

    Tunes   Next to the cattle market A long alleyway room, where electric looking chairs waited. Tunes the barbers. 'Right to the bone' he would order. I sat quietly, as the snipping...

      Mother and the Mortgage Mother is like a nervous yet overly positive mouse and since I moved away, it’s just been her and my sister in that huge, half-empty house. They play...

      Therapy Time This time after the morning rituals for the day, you turn your back, button your blouse, no glimpse of even your bra. New maneuver. I can tell that you are looking...

      Rose Her grave lay under the rosebush. We planted her first and by her parents’ hands the rosebush followed shortly after. Rather than heavy black straps we used umbilical white...

        November Your hair thick as mooring rope – I wound it round my hand pulled your body close, walking kept us warm on the spider-silk threads of a ploughed field the oak...

      The congregation of trees stands with the wind hoofing its way through their limbs we kneel beneath in the dark in the rich mulch of their clothes hand in hand the deep howl of...

      A57 Drug route, gun route- nappies, cartons and bottles below griffs and hags. The moor a midden of shit, ash and offal, the dead seeping into drains. And by a cairn a sheep...