sunset fire.jpg



We worship the sun-child with dances of fire,

The purposive death to the perilous night.

The golden ascent and the chance to inspire

The old gods to relish in violent delight.

We bow to the cry, ‘til the motions expire:

And blood in the sky is a merciful sight,

Facing the sun-death with dances of fire

And tracing the touch of the westering light.



We may no longer all worship pagan deities. But we are sun-worshippers. 


An old favourite of mine.


Between the three of us, my friend Jac, my boyfriend and I occasionally set each other a challenge. Similar to “Three” the theme for this piece, picked almost at random, was “Monster”. We had a fortnight to write our own pieces, any format, any tone, any voice. It was interesting to see how our ideas all differed. I really recommend finding some like-minded friends / victims and trying this out. 


Hello, my love.

It has been difficult, to find any books about you

Under Dewey Decimal 133.1,

Or thereabouts. I couldn’t find you,

Until at last, through mist, I wandered wider;

Wherever had you gone?

Although I looked around me in the woods

I had to listen, for your whereabouts.

Scratching, scratching at my back

With every hug.

The creak on a stair,

The crackle of your hair.

The bumps in the night.

In the absence…

View original post 175 more words

Did Run Smooth



But there was just one slight

Snag. It caught us as

We passed, like a hook through

A buttonhole, a coat tail caught

In a closing door. We could have moved on,

Eased it gingerly from its… predicament,

Teasing a thorn from a lion’s paw:

But it snatched us in an instant,

Jerked us, snapped our necks like

Crash test dummies flung through

A suddenly brittle windshield;

My neck snapped back to find

You, Eurydice, snagged on it too



The challenge was to write a poem in under a minute. I think that, given the time constraints, it almost comes out legible. 

Nobody’s Muse


nobody's muse


But no-one ever wrote a thing, for you,

Let you carry them on a flight of music:

Ride the wings on your shoulders, your widened back

A perfect kite. Nobody cared to sing

For those closed lips, or play a doleful lute

For a bowl of your last, deep, and untouched, wine:

Nobody took a drop of cyan ink

To trace across your wrist’s calligraphy.

Nobody ever did prop up their easel,

Bid you sit – take in your silhouette,

Recast your features, trace your shaded thoughts

And resting shapes – or even let the spill

Of watercolours whiten out your eyes.

Bathroom 03:47


A fellow writer dared me to write something “ugly.” This is the closest I would go. 



Cold white sober enamel

Scatters light, cleanly.


The glaring concaveness of the bowl

Is a reckless skate park half-pipe


Rising up, then down and up, then down,

Dashing its brains against the sides.


Cold white sober tiles

Under your palms, for a flush-hot face


To press shame into iron-like,

A flat and clean, mistaken resting place



Evening, Sandwich Bay


sandwich bay


Returning to the whispers of the tide,

Displacing sand and stones, I trundle down.

Silt scatters underfoot. The salty reeds

Thirst at my shins,


Scrape my bare legs. The air is vaster here,

I cannot say: it’s wider than a gasp,

Fresher than sky. At the indigo hour,

The cool expanse


Returns me with the whispers of the tide:

Displaced like sand and silt beneath my shins,

Scattered among the salt and thirsting reeds,

I trundle down.



I have very fond memories of Sandwich Bay, in Kent, from my childhood right up to the present day. I hoped to invoke, through rhythm and sibilance, the motion of descending the bank of shells and stones, pebbles and sand, to reach the widening shore at low tide one evening. 



old hands.jpg



Her fingers interlaced, she held her hands

Between her knees, as though in fallen prayer:

Clutched, a travesty of knots, the way

A plant, outgrown its pot, has tangled roots

Writhing in one ball, its clotted soil

Now one thick mass of string. She drily wrung

Her knuckles, fingers, wedding ring; now every

Vein and artery a rosary,

Her grief wrought out. Her paper-coloured palms

A palimpsest of futures, lines crossed out,

Rewritten time and again; she held her hands,

As though no man could would take them, anymore.



The word “relict” was often used on Grants of Probate, only a few decades ago, to refer to the widow of the deceased. The etymology of the word is fascinating, and well worth a quick Google.