Slowly, I come to.
First fingers. Then arms, legs and toes.
From somewhere a torso appears, topped by a head.
The pain takes a little longer to arrive. But when it does
the body is gathered in a cocoon of ringing muscles and
Eyelids flicker. Hands reach for water to wet a dry mouth.
The sun continues to rise.
I beat my wings
into the void
(Bleached Butterfly #1)
This poem is dedicated to my friend, Nick Diggins, who died earlier this year.
of a friend’s death
the turning tide
shallows a crab
(Otata 42, June 2019)
Published in Otata, June 2019
night wraps paper
Published in Human/Kind 1.6, June 2019 as ‘Götterdammerung’
Global warming. Terrorist attacks. The rise of right-wing populism.
You could be forgiven for thinking it is the end of days.
In The Bible the book of Revelations describes how the world will end, as the devil sends the beast to do his work and bring an end to God’s kingdom.
Nordic people instead foresaw a great battle of the gods, Ragnarok, as the curtain closing act.
Physicists prefer to predict the heat death of the universe.
When I was young, there was a man who walked the streets of London wearing a billboard with the slogan ‘The End of the World is Nigh’.
I wonder where he is now.
a teenage girl
clutches her banner
Published in cattails, April 2019
the grey in her hair
Left to its own devices, almost any patch of ground will not remain bare for long, before being colonised by some kind of plant. Even rocky shorelines are home to thrift and sea kale, and retreating glaciers are swiftly replaced by alpine grasses and willowherbs.
This planet may be small and blue by virtue of being seventy percent ocean, but the land is most definitely green.
Wild flowers are one thing, happy to be left to their own devices to grow, fruit and senesce. Gardening is quite another. Growing flowers and vegetables from seed is an art and domesticated plants are like pets—they need far more care and protection than their feral counterparts.
No one would call me green-fingered and plants in my care are rather taking their chances. Best intentions are soon forgotten and, before too long, a once well-tended patch is abandoned to the wild, as much as I am myself.
daisy print dress
she loves me
loves me not
(published in Human/Kind 1.4)