The bird
crept up on him, threw its voice into an empty tree

      Girl Awaits the Psychic Investigators They’re late. The table is laid with a clean cloth, all normal and neat. Our visitors, city men, may find it hard to navigate the path but we can wait. They hope to gather evidence of a haunting; whether he’ll...

We don’t decide who we love.
Who we hate, yes,
who we’re jealous of,
but never who we end up loving.

Someone is taking a photo
at a wedding
of their baby
at a celebration.

These hills that look towards both weald and waves
hold – in their homesteads, fenced and open land,
trackways and contours – all that’s happened here

I’m sorry for the screeching and swearing we winter swimmers do.

A decapitated road sign
Spears the yellow verge,

Meaningless as a symbol
Of progress. A vain strut.

I wrote a metaphor using eel
for blue-light reflections in water
on a flooded motorway