At Suginot the water swarms around the rock fall, Turquoise and empty. The round power of tides grasps like a pulse. The bending pine branches are green hands Cupping water,…

We should have been together, here, where the water is not natural, where there is a dark pool on the beach. A tank of black water which absorbs light, even…

Shuffling brushes like a clenched mikado, mixing the ingredients for paint; earth and iris, and horse-piss, spring water, whiskey, potash and salt, pestled stamens like virgin’s sleep, and arsenic for…

We shall tramp about, with our eyes on small traps of water in the track. His eyes will be mine, even the styes that crowd the lid, and the black…

Winter’s dry, and Summer’s wet, and they laughed at you and I, in a pop-up tent in Somerset, but they didn’t sit on a pink mat, drinking pink wine, wearing…

The steep garden might’ve died, the lawn with white clover may have sunk out of sight. These are tired times, the seasons don’t stick to their promised arrivals, the snowdrops…

Using a witch-finger stick to plant beans around a tee-pee. She must have eaten thousands of runner beans. She still prods the earth around a cart-wheel like the queen of…

In a rather exciting development, a poet friend of mine, Mattias Thomas, has agreed to give me a poem each week to put up on this blog. A small circle…