Shamrock I’m holding the damp spray close. The leaves are tender. They reek of innocence. Once, you bunched a sprig on my lapel - an elf-lock green as nature in perpetual...

      Under Putney Bridge The tide is out and I take the stone steps down into the mud. The air is quiet here and damp walls grow around me, over and below, arching grey. There are...

    Cold Morning in Borrowdale On the frozen, silent valley floor, all wire is barbed with tiny frost-spikes of pure cold light. The dead grasses, too, have white frost-thorns that melt...

      Hurrying Woman circa 1912 after a sketch held in the archive at Marjons College, Plymouth This is my idea of cleaning: to polish the mahogany as I slide full speed down the...

      My Place on the worn couch you sit in my place the indent of the cushions a loose fit for your small body that seeks the warmth I vowed you today I say nothing and let you be...

      Amongst the treasures of the British Museum Godless, made in China, and in the room the other Godless lot put up, a drift of eyes alive with mourning move like contraband, and...

      What’s Wrong with David? David does the garden. Ever since the ramp, I’ve been keeping an eye, sometimes he says to me the grass is too short or too wet to be cut. To be fair,...

      Rome or a Room for Squatters I would if I could have a bottle or two, Sat on these streets with silly old you. I’d speak the lingo and you’d laugh Because you did not know. I’d...