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
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