Saturday, 18 May 2013


The imprints of Autumn’s damp shadow

lie as ruby stains with their sunken veins,

clinging with brittled paper skin

to a drying ground. Their fringed outlines,

fading in May, finally coaxed and freed

by a warm summer wind. 

Tuesday, 9 October 2012

City Bird

Tame, mellow breast
of the city’s silent gazers.
Accustomed now,
to the unnatural lights,
hollowed shrieks of glee,
the rows of cheap eats.

A wary attempt
at birdsong with colour,
washed pale, translucent
in the midst of howling polluters. 

Sunday, 10 June 2012

Oregon Grape & Pheasant Berry

Oregon Grape

Happy in sun
or shade
is the smallish shrub.

As its red hue spreads,
dense in Autumn

its perfumed shrub
lies in wait,
with blackberries.

Pheasant Berry

Green shoots
purple fruit,

as they weave
through the red-wine

of the most pleasant berry.


They watched as he drew closer,
a shadowy figure zig-zagging
through moonlight, cutting up stars
that so carefully construct
the way home, like pin points
on a old map now faded,
edges forming of a brand new galaxy.

The ship waits in the un-mapped water,
nervous as a parent, anxious
for it’s child’s return to land that’s known,
not unbranded seas of orange and gold,
glittering peninsulas and Eskimo-white peaks. 

Sunday, 18 March 2012


The paintbrush flicks, lines form.
The smell of wood smoke in the breeze,
Robins sing each shade of green.

A canvas glows in the lifeless room.
Damp smell of early rain
Above the city street.

The sirens howl outside.
Anonymous taxis clog grey streets
With heavy-hanging smog.

Inside the paintbrush rests
On a flat green valley
Nestled between hills of rolling lime.

Silvery pools of rain,
Shallow in their patterns.
The blue sky, lilac cloud.

Washes. Expanses.


Morning mists surround
fruit trees with sweet apple
and citrus scents,
florals carried in the breeze

of sunny vineyards.
The freshness of berry
ripening in the air,
as the sparrows sing.

Thursday, 3 November 2011


Weeds hang in blue-green seas,
pirated by the waves as they roll in,
or they flap against hanging masks
in brisk, salty air.

Pieces of broken shell
stick to clammy feet as tides
reach and grasp at grains,
tugging from the shore
to be relinquished once more
by shacks selling fresh crab
or sticky-sweet rock,
emblazoned as the seafront.