I’ve seen dozens of you about the Fylde,
face all vape, fatigue, some wild sense of
beard, black hair to border it all.

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.