• 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 drenched 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 drenched wings, to dry.


    Image: Cormorant by Sonja Molina, Instagram @sonlune

  • 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.

  • Poetry
  • Rust Bucket

    poetry music alexander westmacott


    There’s something so real
    and present and
    physical about
    the thing that counteracts
    a life of imaginings,
    spreadsheets and

    In the jagged sharpness of
    crumpled and torn
    steel bodywork;
    an old shell rusted to
    delicacy and overgrown,

    red fringes
    refreshed by every rain,
    a shelter of history,
    a world for countless lives,

    eating under tyres and swimming
    in oil stained puddles,
    ripening in rainbow decay.

  • Poetry
  • Dōrieis

    A few birds, bravely air-borne still,

    Flock in lost formation,

    Struggling, as humans will,

    For sense and murmuration.


    The sky, a crumbling blue and grey,

    For a brief duration,

    Births the brightest snow-drop white,

    As reason, revelation.