At Drumcree Churchyard Hoarse cough of the chough’s voice from the burnt wood, blisters ear tells me I am now in the right place from a burnt spar of mountain ash the coarse ...

      Hand You feel like a plastic hand Remote controlled Taking your sweet time To pick up a pen We should be Sequential But I don't know What you're going to do next The night was...

      Home - In Deeside       Every day I walk the windy tunnel of the high street. ‘Good morning,’ says the odd one, playing a comb-tune through tissue paper. I bow. The estuary is...

      Journeying From the Book of Lost Poems The moon has opened its eye on this Night of Redemption. The Penitents are all dressed in black. Only the white of their faces – their own...

      Monsanto's Gift to War Smitty isn't Schulte. He doesn't drive a Cadillac and doesn't hit his wife often any more. Schulte, on the other hand, drives a Cadillac and hits his wife...

    * the sun is low enough to rest our drinks on and our too-big boots                    house-big Annabelle written in fluttered chalk on the table leg must be a night for...

  I Have This Condition I'm invisible. Okay-not invisible in the conventional sense of the word but I can walk by a small group of other women whispering and they don't bother to stop or even...

      Touching Poem   You are being manipulated. It’s all right because I know exactly what I‘m doing. I’ve done this before.   Manipulation’s not a bad thing. It’s just...

      A Light Bulb Bursts Electricity rains like broken glass, holding ideas too expansive to ignite.  Air absorbs the shattered, breathes like gasoline.  Somewhere in shadow, a...

      Pilgrimage We sat on Porlock hill in the brunt face of the Atlantic, the cairn scattered with your ashes a year ago and a week, approached with wide eyes and open shoulders;...