As I am today, so you will be tomorrow


As i am today pic


Yours are moments of the now,

Sights of a golden sun,

Songbird shadows flashing through

A May that’s just begun,

Sewn with summer’s promise to

A splendour of your own.

Mine are memories of the hour,

Of earth and mist as one,

Shadows borne on your tomorrow,

Both forged in ash and bone.

Your sunbird summer will be ours

When at last our dance is done.


In my hometown church in Newark-on-Trent, the church has hidden in one of its sepulchres an image of a danse macabre. The image, as above, is of a rich young prince, confronted with a contrary, meagre image of Death. It is given an epithet very popular in Middle Age artwork of this genre: As I am today, so you will be tomorrow. 

Flirtation outside cafés


On the terrace where I kept my seat,

As he lingered there, two fingers on the lip

Of a coffee cup, the slow game of sweet

Imagination played. Dark swathes of rogue,

Rich hair; his face a monument to his

Purpose, concentration, as he read

A novel at the café’s outside seating.

Two fingers, on the lip: a motionless

Instruction, a pose most apposite

Whilst I savoured my cigarette, some seats away.

The truth-or-dare of watching; a staring game

The rules of which we’re only now discovering.

There is no more exquisite pleasure, than

The promise of these flavours, savoured here –

That face returns: and so I place my wager

In the inhalation of smoke, and taste of coffee,

Draining my cup. I hold the moment finely,

Readying myself for our discussion.



I think we’ve all had the pleasure of seeing, entirely by chance, a beautiful person at a café. Isn’t it just divine, to waste a few minutes drinking down their image, half-flirtatiously; subtly enjoying the view? And then, of course, you go your separate ways. You finish your drink, gather your coat and continue life. This is an important a part of the process: crossing paths briefly, and enjoying that brevity. 

The Surface of Oak


Oak grain pic


The surface of oak: it is earth, haunted
by weaving years. Its fine body, branded
by the grain of its slow, considered growth,
like stretch marks of a contented mother
or the residue of the tide.


Beneath the bark, we keep a finer pattern
flowing through us: lines of time, binding
our knots and whorls, imperfections, souls,
so that, in cross-section, we might appear
as gods in our design.


A night this is, to kill a love


A night this is, to kill a love:

The weary stars have seen enough.

They’ve wept at how we’ve wondered here

From their fine view, so clear above.


Together, us: so almost-near

Beside the fire, once tender, dear.

They must be tired, to see us dance

This mortal grasping, once sincere.


I plead to them: But once last chance,

Please, prove our moment of romance;

Alas they know this night is our

Last to share in their expanse.


To kill a love: this is the hour.

So under their expanse, devour

This moment, love: this fading chance,

As starlight dies on our romance.



Don’t worry, darling. Our love is very much alive, and the stars are happy for us. Inspired by Robert Frost and Dylan Thomas. 

Blends of watercolour


Watercolour sea


As it lasted, we met: the blue entirety

Of an open sky. Our new expanse of time

Meant we could be two loves, like two distinct

Songbirds in the distance, flying apart

Together, free. We painted love like art

And overlapped like waters: we were linked

By something wide, a shade both yours and mine,

Ourselves, but drifting in our surety.


Perhaps the colours spilt: lost subtlety

In how we were. Eventually, I’d find

Our shared horizons distantly would shift.

We shared too much, perhaps: for every part,

And every pulse was beat from our same heart.

One cannot live by halves. So, cast adrift

As our own, we learnt to shade our own blue skies:

All that we share now, is blue entirety.


Inspired by Kate Bush lyrics and a good friend.

Spook Parade


I am rather astonished. I sat down to edit a novel I’m working on: I wake up a few hours later to find that my fiancé has imagined a sort of dance macabre, a sort of mardi gras of death. It’s quite wonderful and a little irksome how talented he is.

Originally posted on Glamourgeist:


My fiancé and I have been setting ourselves a theme each month to create a piece of art around. The theme for March is ‘Parade.’
We have both been steaming away today and I have produced this picture entitled ‘Spook Parade’.

I wonder what will appear next!

View original

Instrument of atrocity


I am learning the language of objects. So, the kitchen knife

Scintillating before me: I must undo a thousand

Years of knowing what it can and must do,

And see it as steel, as inertia. I must unlearn

It purposes and desires, its thirsts, its cunning gait,

King Duncan’s end and many before him;

And instead embrace its precise and harmless form.

For the thing is without harm: only in redefinition,

Holding it and giving it purpose, is it made

A murderer.


As I might too, in my own way, be cut-throat

And thirsty for the salty taste of red along my fine

Clean sides, merciless; sometimes, when held, I too

Become an instrument of atrocity. Can I

Distract myself from these, the most delicious

Incidents, and render myself natural?