• Poetry
  • The Brume

    It settles with an antinode
    that slakes the singing reed,

    and whining uninvited, scrawls
    a misanthropic creed,

    but in the stones, the soil of woe
    it sows disloyal seed,

    as it its own self enthralls,
    which greed will unto greed.

  • Poetry
  • Mayfly

    No pity for the mayfly,
    Or envy for the evergreen,

    No moon tonight,
    Just drizzle in the street lamps,

    Tea lights drift in the window,
    And the crows have settled down.

    The city is holding its breath,
    Fingers drift over silk,

    In the time between
    The lightening and the thunder,

    We conduct our secret affair.

  • Poetry
  • An Evening Stroll by the Itchen

    Despite a thousand disguises,
    As it grows dark she’s revealed,
    Humming in a mode only rivers know,

    While the trees turn to spilled ink,
    And the horses roll in the mead,
    Like a heart murmur.

    Night doesn’t fall,
    but rises from the water,
    Drowning the meadow in sound.

  • Poetry
  • Rock pools

    What the tide left behind;
    barnacles and whale songs,
    and a few of the best parts
    of my father.

    Dún Laoghaire is a stone
    lifeboat that rises and falls,
    but it’s a long town
    for little legs,

    so we made a giant
    (you only get lighter)
    and we made a slow-witted bear,
    and we ran in the spray
    as the shore gently sank.

    Dún Laoghaire is a sand
    castle, but the sea
    doesn’t scare you.
    As it washes away at your feet,
    lighter and lighter you become.