• 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.

  • Poetry
  • The Blade & The Ear

    ‘I shall see my soul rise out of his blade, in a candour and in an innocense’
    – John Donne

    The tree is a shelter,
    It makes a saving shadow,
    For the livestock,

    The grass moves like water in the wind,
    Everything is always fading.

    The blade becomes the ear,
    The grain becomes the bread,

    The grain flows like water through the hands.

    Everything is pieces,
    The pieces come together into forms,
    The rain on the mountain floods the towns.

    The water flows like glass across the pastures,
    The moon is on the earth and in the sky,
    Everything is always fading.

    Beauty is the sharpest pain,
    Love is the keenest beauty,
    Marrow fills the bone and makes the blood.

    The blade maims the ear,
    The fruit becomes the marrow,
    Everything is always growing.

    The blue of the sky rolls back in the evening,
    And the stars sing out a cantus,
    The sky is more light than darkness,
    Like shining grain cast over black soil,
    And they call the night night,
    And they call the day day,

    And the day calls forth the people,
    To make a temple of the earth.

    And they call the day day,
    That moves with such dominant ease,
    That burns itself into our necks,
    And into our muscles.

    And the blade becomes the ear,
    The grain becomes the bread,
    Everything is always growing.

  • Poetry
  • Tessellation


    She made a bridge with her toes;
    Clinging uselessly to my thighs,
    And the frailty threw us around
    Mixing our hearts with
    Chocolaty brews.

    Saturday in the vineyard,
    Transparent glances all along the field walk,
    Waking naturally,
    To a flavour and a moan.

    That was the never time,
    When money spiders span oak branches
    And held meetings
    To decide the next phase of the moon.

    And we felt the blackbird’s breath,
    And the beat of it’s wings on our breasts,
    And the passing clouds over Berkshire villages
    Were as sturdy as Victorian aquaducts,
    Whilst the fruits of our crafts and our labours
    Were soft as steam in the air.

    She made a bridge with her little toes,
    As frail as frozen grass,
    But everywhere about us
    Rang out in beautiful song.

    [Photo: ‘Hiding Your Light’ by Ailsa Naumann]