• 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.

  • Poetry
  • Ode to a Blenheim Cormorant



    As five swans, together, lift their weight,
    With no little effort, toward the sky,
    My eye, yet falls, admiring, nearer ground,
    Where, on a branch that overhangs the lake,
    Not starting at the egret’s cry,
    She, unlocking not a sound,
    Who hunting over-long would drown,
    Reaches out her drenchèd wings to dry.

    A grebe, unseen, submerged, passes near-by,
    And on the shore mill pheasants, sheep and rabbits,
    But clothed in nature’s charcoal-aged habit,
    She busies not herself, but sits to dry.

    And so a long in-breath becomes a sigh,
    Cutting through all wandering, worried thoughts,
    Just to watch her perch upon the over-hanging stalk,
    And reach out her drenchèd wings, to dry.


    Image: Cormorant by Sonja Molina, Instagram @sonlune

  • Poetry
  • Shore Lappings

    It was always cloudy
    in the mornings
    burning off by home time,
    a play-ground of a town
    gentle and wholesome
    yellowing grass,
    ride-on mowers in the parks
    and palm trees.

    A world of wall crayon
    and wooden floors
    under two-story glass facing west
    into the garden, toward the sun
    and the sea.

    Shore lappings at the dog beach
    or by the pier
    volleyball beauties and
    leather skin
    held up with small bikinis

    Experimenting with gravity
    splinters, hot tubs and
    bear-feet tears

    Finger nails, freshly cut
    Sunday’s cloth and
    to rows about politics,
    dressed up as
    work schedules,
    home economics,
    while they carried, nestled in their hearts,
    love’s arrow
    launched from a fifties cartoon.

    Oil rigs on the water,
    and Catalina beyond
    on a good day,
    if the air was clear.
    Smog inland
    and tarmac almost melting
    which Mexicans looking for work
    seemed not to feel or notice
    guarding a territorial line,
    or threatening it
    but anyway, mostly ignored.

  • Poetry
  • Tenement Magnolias

    magnolia poem


    Chattering echoes and
    light rakes the oratory,

    Everywhere blossom and soft warmth,
    pebbles, litterfall.

    A gift of small blisters,
    rhythms on the common.

    Tenement magnolias
    singing in thought, and silently –

    Lift up your hearts,
    lift up your hearts.


  • Poetry
  • Kite

    The hills roll like eggs
    with calcium texture

    latticed in spiky monoculture
    on cabbage-moth time

    terracotta nests,
    and territories, more
    than we know.

    Two stroke chopper drone,
    bird-strike and rhythm and blues,

    lichen-crusty hawthorn
    and flat, crawling conifers,
    ever-green and bloomless.

    Library thoughts –
    chattering reflections –

    settling now
    like brown sugar in porridge

    following a bee

    down from the warm, drenched laurels
    veined and expecting, themselves.

    She sent up flares
    near the end

    that burst like dandelion clocks
    but I saw her
    too late.

    It’s all moving today
    as fast as the long pine shadow

    it’s all blinding
    like a welder’s arc.

    Ticking like a hi-hat
    and chewing on arithmetic

    a school kid
    who doesn’t understand

    eye-lid droop
    in leaf litter tissue

    and brightness
    such brightness

    over the coriander knell
    sack cloth races

    a ponder away
    of garment stained treasure

    and chocolate cake
    fresh for a favourite
    grand son.