Upon the headland is my place
where seabirds wheel and turn apace,
a-screeching windblown tales to me
of distant lands and distant seas,
of sparkling beaches, gleaming quartz,
of strangers and of foreign ports,
of shark and serpent, kraken, whale,
of ships that foundered in the gale,
of sunken vessels, bones picked clean,
of hagfish writhing and obscene,
of ocean currents, plankton’s bloom,
of those that spawn beneath the moon,
of coral reef and rainbow hue,
of lava and volcanic flue,
of devastating waves and tides,
of those who lived and those who died,
Yet little does this mean to me
as I stare silent out to sea,
where seabirds wheel and turn apace,
upon the headland is my place.

So long ago in King Hal’s time, our nets we cast upon the wave;
and drawing in did stand a-feared at what we’d caught in Orford Bay.

Entangled ‘midst our dripping catch, with eyes that stared all hellish green,
enscaléd like some creature deep, a Merman writhed as one obscene.

All webbéd were his hands and feet, his body dripped with ocean bile;
upon his head the ****-wrack grew, green-bearded was this demon vile.

Fast to the shore with awful haste we sped before the wind and tide;
Lord Glanville for to summon forth, the Merman’s fate all to decide.

Upon the quay his Lordship stood with men at arms and shriven priest,
and all did cross themselves in fear before this strange unholy beast.

“Enchain it,” cried Lord Glanville loud, “then to God’s Kirk with all good speed!”
The shriven priest prayed long and hard as to the church we did proceed.

With Holy Water, cross of gold, with candle and with testament,
the priest then exorcised the beast, who knew not what was done nor meant.

To all’s dismay he would not bow before the Host on bended knee;
and so to dungeon was he dragged to dwell upon his blasphemy!

The silent Merman beaten was, and hung in chains in for seven weeks,
and fed was he on fish and shells, yet never did he sleep nor speak.

And so at length his Lordship said, “Across the harbour tie a net,
and we shall see how he shall swim, but by his ankles chainéd, yet!”

The net a-fixed, the village folk came down to see the Merman’s plight;
into the sea they threw him then, with foam and wavelet flashing white.

He vanished ‘neath the waters like some seabird in pursuit of prey,
then surfaced laughing, chain in hand, and to his Lordship he did say;

“You thought to make me such as you, who walk in blindness o’er the land!
You’d punish me for difference!  You thought to treat me like a Man!”

So long ago in King Hal’s time our nets we cast upon the wave;
and drawing in did stand a-feared at what we’d caught in Orford Bay.

Well I’ve lain in the dirt now for many’s the year,
and I’ve seen cowards fight and I’ve seen brave men’s fear.
I’ve witnessed their laughter, their songs and their tears;
I’m a spent cartridge case on the Somme.

My body is rusted and bent now with age,
ah, but once I was young, full of hatred and rage!
Back in 1916 history turned a dread page;
I’m a spent cartridge case on the Somme.

It was my destiny on the first of July,
as the larks sang above in a cloudless blue sky,
for to sentence a young soldier boy there to die;
I’m a spent cartridge case on the Somme.

Now the guns are long silent, the trenches are green,
and a peaceful sun shines on a poppy-strewn scene.
White headstones cast shadows where heroes have been;
I’m a spent cartridge case on the Somme.

This morning they found me, and out from the clay
I was pulled by a man in the harsh light of day,
just a small souvenir of a tourist’s brief stay;
I’m a spent cartridge case on the Somme.

By green and windblown rippled slopes
where cattle graze in summer sun;
beneath blue skies where larks sing shrill
and rabbits by the hedgerows run.
When meadowsweet and columbine
bedeck the grass like ocean foam;
we soft return like shadows lost
to seek our old ancestral home.

Within the tree-lined borderlands
we wait until the day is done;
‘til passing fancies leave us be
and once again our time is come.
When doors and gates are closed and locked
we slip within as night winds roam;
and talk in whispered secrecy
of times in our ancestral home.

No more within cold fireplace
do fallen logs burn bright and fair;
from panelled walls in sullen oils
dark portraits of the long dead stare.
On bowing shelves of oak repose
the toils of men in leathern tome;
unread and lost for centuries,
hid deep in our ancestral home.

And through the watches of the night
we drift from room to balcony;
recalling days of childhood lost,
and laughter of sweet memory.
Yet all too soon we must be gone
‘ere birds again chorale the dawn;
and disappear like shadows soft
that fly from our ancestral home.

Winter gives way to Spring,
life returns anew to the land,
and so the ages pass.

Deep within the Greenwood
a figure stirs beneath the mossy bole
of a venerable holly tree.

Melting ice falls glittering
from a fold of velvet.
A thin wind whispers in the whins.

Startled, a song-thrush flits wildly
over ragged brambles,
the dawn sun gleaming in his wide, black eyes.

It is time, once again,
for someone to re-awaken
the sleeping snowdrops.

My ragged wings are black as night, my eyes are cold as sin;

the crows and rooks and magpies, and the jays, my nearest kin.

I am a rogue and vagabond, I raid the nests of Man;

I’ll steal his golden trinkets and I’ll take whate’er I can.


Some fools have tried to trap me, and yet others have their guns,

but they who think me stupid little know what’s to be done.

Some others think to bribe me for to leave their crops alone;

I swoop in with my brothers and we take their kernels home.


To superstitious folks who see me perch upon their roof,

a new born babe will follow, for that is the Devil’s truth.

Yet down your chimney should I flit, beware the Reaper’s blade!

Within the year cold death shall come to master or to maid.


So look outside your window now and see what I may do,

If on the weather vane I sit, then rain shall come to you.

But if me and my brothers all do chatter, jack and caw,

then pray we are mistaken, for we tell of coming war.

Desolate rock-strewn mountains
lit by cold sunlight

Prayer flags flap in
ceaseless Himalayan winds

An armless, broken Buddha smiles
from a desecrated temple floor

Grey October dawning,
mist hangs low in woodland
Fading is the season,
beech and oak leaves falling
Tangled are the brambles,
overgrown and berried
Spider in her leaf-hide,
sees her web bejewelled
Drowsy cattle standing,
breath and wet flank steaming
Sunrise gleams on water,
streamlet coldly flowing
Wasted grasses leaning,
trampled under hoofprint
Fern and mosses greening,
close by wall of sandstone
Early sings the sparrow,
yarrow flowers whiting
Sluggish flies the bee now,
nectar scarce inviting
Owl in tall tree sleeping,
shuns the day awaking
Fox in earthen breastwork,
sated now from hunting
Rabbit sniffs the morning,
burrow mouth beguiling
Scent of mould and mushroom,
undergrowth pervading
Fallen tree trunk rotting,
spotted red with fungus
Naked roots stand grasping,
fingers locked in death throe
Down in dew washed meadow,
foal lies red and stillborn
Sadly stands the old mare,
one year past her blessing
Nevermore to call home
her stallion by evening
Hidden in the hawthorn,
by blood-red berries dripping
Carrion crow watches,
waiting for her leaving
Patience is his virtue,
soon to know the feeding.

Shivering, she hurriedly draws
the bedroom curtains,
catches her nail in the fabric
and curses her dying candle.  

Sarcastic concern echoes from the bathroom:  
“Are you alright, dear?”

She raises the finger in his general direction:
“Oh sure, I just love November power-cuts, don’t you?
Some romantic weekend this turned out to be!”

But there is no disguising the smell of fear.

Out in the backwoods
a loping presence sniffs the air,
and crunches ever nearer
over drifts of frost-rimed
fallen leaves.

Saturday evening, it's early, so early,
before all the bright young things come out to play;
5.30 down in the pub by the bus station,
paintwork is peeling, it's seen better days.

Up by the juke box a man in a faded
old jacket stands baffled, a coin in his hand.
Names flash before him in gaudy confusion,
he can't find The Searchers, his favourite band.

Three women gossip and shriek by the window
where pale light illuminates glasses of gin;
Elsie's a pensioner, Maureen's a widow,
and Dot buys a round from her last bandit win.

Up at the bar big fat Ronnie's demanding
they switch on the TV t o see if he's won;
Got a hot tip and he stuck on a tenner,
he'd better not tell her indoors what he's done!

Smell of stale ***** permeates from old Billy,
he's been drinking Guinness since quarter to three;
last night he was nicked by the cops on his way home
for taking a leak underneath a park tree.

All human life is arrayed in the bar room,
it's where people come when they've nowhere to go;
seeking companionship, happy the hour,
when somebody talks to them that they don't know.

Where bright blood flowed
across my carven chest,
I now feel only warm,
tropic raindrops.  

Once, impassive priests stood here,
clad in gold and feathers,
obsidian blades poised
and dripping gore.  

But now a bored child sulks,
kicking at wet pebbles,
dragged unwilling to my side
by tourist parents.  

He turns away, spitting pink gum
into my granite bowl.  
There was a time when
I would have had his throbbing heart.

One day, gasped the Dying Man,
your Empire will be nothing
but a tale in a history book.

Your great cities will lie in ruins,
and your very language
will be dead.

You lie, said the soldier
with the spear,
stabbing upwards.

"Walk" they said.
"Walk until we tell you to stop."
And
we
are
still
walking . . .

Shut away from public view
behind high walls and landscaped gardens,
Antiseptic wards where beds
have strong restraints, and none are pardoned.
Seldom are the inmates given
visits by their family members,
those that have forgotten kinfolk
cling to life like dying embers.
Who would wish to see some brother,
giggling, imbecilic, drooling?
Who would wish to see some sister,
***** round her ankles pooling?
Then there are the psychopaths,
the freaks deformed, and those possessed;
sedatives and exorcism
pacify the most distressed.
When the sun goes down no shadows
lengthen in stark corridors.
Never-winking neon tubes
ensure that light’s forever yours.
Even so when night has fallen
always come the sounds of Hell.
Slamming doors and running footsteps,
screams and shouts - a tolling bell.
Lost souls roaming empty stairways,
disembodied spirits howling.
Bodies stiff with medication
twitch whilst cotton sheets be-fouling.
And when dawn returns to shine
upon this Godforsaken phylum,
Nature wipes a tearful eye
and grieves for mankind’s bleak asylum.

She walked through pastures green
beneath a chill October sky.
Thin drizzle drifted
over web-strewn hedgerows,
bejewelling her coat
and forming tiny pearls
upon her long black lashes.

Lost in reverie she ambled
slowly downhill towards
a reed-edged stream
where, she recalled,
small birds chased midges
when the sun summer shone.
But not today.

She noticed long strands of grass
clinging wetly to her legs
and, as dim thoughts lumbered
through her bovine brain,
wondered if she and her sisters
would be taken away  for milking
before the downpour broke.