Hello

      What is holding you back from building your wormery? You can’t say there isn’t the time. Everyone has the time when it comes to a wormery. Born with the right tools to hand. And no lack of wood - an affluence of pallet offcuts. Here - the frames...

      House ...4am and the birdsong begins, a wet January in a new city and I’m alone watching a man in Minnesota, murdered for protecting a woman from a fascist hit squad and the politicians are smirking trying to deny the evidence, saying no it didn’t...

    Unexpectedly My neighbour opens her window for fresh salty air Along the lough the first ferry in daylight skims silently by A strange bird with brilliant markings soars by my window— I imagine a miracle that carries illness away.   Tim Dwyer’s...

      Postscript Dusk on the third day of the Buddhist feast of Obon and toro nagashi gets underway across Japan. Their shore leave over, the spirits of the dead are bid farewell until that time next year, when ritual grants them reprieve again. The...

    Cup Sometimes words are the only thing that get you through, But not the words you think, not a word like love or hope those are imprecise. It’s more a word like window or fenêtre even curtain words that are more certain, that have weight on the tongue...

      Candlelight We lit a candle for you that day in Sacre  Coeur, under its white-flame dome as high as Paris could go and still be Paris, stood there awhile as the dark fire caught, aspiring to spirit, then turned as the dusk church rang with...

    Inventory of a Walk   On Kinley’s Lane, quince tree, wild blackberries, branches of feijoa reaching over a fence, fallen fruit. Into Abberley Park, past the bird bath with salamanders twisting round the base, down a gravel path. Hellebores, rhodos,...

      Draenog  What was the Welsh for ‘hedgehog’? That was what he wanted to know. It was a word he could only remember in his sleep when he dreamt of himself as a small boy, barefoot, back in 1966. The sun was shining. He was wandering across fields...

      Tabula Rasa Rectangular, with corners cut off like an octagon, muddy brown shows through the cream exterior where the edges are chipped. Just the right height for a young child learning to stand. Coloured beakers stacked up ready to be knocked...

      How many blows does it take to crack an egg? How many blows does it take to crack an egg? Is a question I never expected to ask If you don’t know, I should tell you, an egg Is what they call the girl inside the male mask When she doesn’t even know...

      Summoning “Pink is the navy blue of India.” Diana Vreeland The hue of brides, appliquéd dark with henna. Citron’s acid curl, vernal blades between teeth. Beneath a virginal sky, weren’t we confections? Pistachio and rosewater, saffron and...

      SURREAL SHEEP I sell the postcard of multi-coloured sheep over and over again. “Done on a computer I suppose” says a lady as she hands over forty pence. “Yes, I expect so” I say. I’ve only seen white, black and brown sheep, earth coloured in the...

      Waiting Room Name called. Not mine. Wasn’t I here first? A new arrival spreads out. One chair always left empty. I glance at copies of National Geographic, Vogue, Woman’s Weekly — all out of date. It’s possible they expired while I was waiting....

      Brine I leave everything on shingle, meet surf like a sibling, crest over playful breakers and chase the moon’s tail. There was salt in my kisses. It preserved us for a while, resisted the putrefaction. Skin on sea-stained sheets. My mind’s water,...

      Hurst Reservoir In the sharpness of a January wind we stepped down, feeling with neoprened feet for the safety of the edge. Bags and clothes huddled on a plastic picnic sheet. We launched, lovingly into dark and silky water unknown yet benign....

      Sanctum Without God You did not ask for knees — They found the floor themselves. Not from command, But gravity. Your name became architecture. Something vaulted. Something echoing. Something built to make small sounds feel holy. I stopped calling...

      Buried That winter the snow kept rising, a slow white wall climbing the windows, each morning untouched, the whole world muffled under it. A hush so complete it felt like a hand pressed gently over the mouth. I pulled on my snow pants, my jacket....

      Bureaucracies of Water I've been reading about ghost apples. They are a real phenomenon, like how everyone we can see on the wide street outside this building is still living, managing thus far, attending appointments, the fissures in their teeth...