Hello

    Pressed Flower I start nicking her daisies as if they're sunlight plunging forward up the cracked garden path, plucking handfuls to stuff in my pockets, so I might press them in-between the dry paragraphs of a heavy book kept at the bottom of a stack of...

      Lilies of the Valley At four or five they gave to me A bed of Granddad’s un-worked land Between the shed and garden path And end-stopped by the water butt. The old man helped me dig and plant. Next Spring I watched the leaves unfurl, The buds...

      Last Winter on the Farm (Inspired by David Dodd Lee) Waxwings, I learned later they were called, the birds that wintered in the cedars. All day long they'd dart in and out of the huge tree that hung like a waterfall over our verandah in the Ottawa...

      Cousin dear cousin how are you over on that side. i hear you lot get a bit of sun and field. does the heat cling. we don’t get much on this side. i’m not sure if you get much smog. sometimes it looks like there’s more of us than there are but then...

      Classified we do not know the name   black boy   aged twelve   well-set with a good grasp of english  has run  described as agreeable no vices the young  fellow believed to be between eleven and fifteen has been reported  missing from listed...

      Loving the Social Anthropologist Almería His country was hot, his economy informal. His method was covert – participant observation. Before dawn in the square, he would watch the men gather collecting in shadows and concentric circles – the...

    from After (John Ashbery, Worsening Situation) As one broken upon a wheel, or dropped from a great height upon jagged rocks, I have watched this murmuration, this perturbation, and have felt my limbs grow numb, however great my desire for flight. Will...

      they define ‘hiraeth’ as a kind of doomed longing - your childhood bedroom is someone else's now and your hometown doesn't exist - they see dandelions, a beloved film, their grandmother's hands, safe old gummy nostalgia recurrent as a mourning...

      gratitude I if I had to tell you about my friend John he’s got a daughter, same age as mine he’s listening to GoGo Penguin in his favourite chair nothing else about his day is optimal but he’s leaning forward, head in prayer there’s a lot of...

      The Half-a-man The giant statue in the main square is weeping sky-blue and sun-yellow tears. Later, leaf-green, then blood-red…soon a technicolour dreamcoat’s worth of crying. Only, this is real. Overnight, the statue loses a leg, next, a finger,...

      I am Jealous of the Rain   smug smug rain has millennia to finish sculpting could take six lifetimes over the angle at the brink of a whorl smirking smug smug rain invites us to see its progress feels no need to grant us insight or god forbid ask...

      Carrie Silverwood They thought she looked familiar when she arrived at their door they’d met her before    somewhere she mentioned friends and places they knew she had fond memories    maybe they did too could she stay a week or two if they had...

      Wishes that Became Small in The Hospital   There are other mosques where the prayers are thrown louder and prostrations stranded without limit There was a subtle, almost imperceptible fear about the ego that is often exchanged as well as desires...

      Cleaning the cooker Dismantling the burners, part inside part. So many meals scorched onto them as dark fat, the week’s routine teatimes. Here someone’s spilt toffee sauce, now transformed to carbonised grit, here hard grains of uncooked rice from...

      The 7.14 The 7.14, the train I always take, it arrives empty from the depot so I always get a seat, the interiors are Christian Lacroix and lights ambient lavender blue, just right for the not- morning person who looks at suburbs that roll by...

      …walking on one of those sunny January afternoons before the light goes and warm – a warm breeze, can you believe it – and ploughed fields and sun on soil and you press play, the song you first heard and loved a few days before on a boxset, and...

      Sad Streets and Side Streets My dad is a sad man— I've said this in another poem only it wasn't me, it was Dad pretending to be me which is a thing he does. (that said I have thought it before, more than thought, I know he's a sad man)— but I...