Poetry (words)


The path seems to trickle endlessly on, or at least it’s end is out of sight. I’ve never followed it completely. The rain is making the view it’s own today, but it still holds beauty in my memory. There are hollows here, burrows of time safe from the salt air. I’ve seen these cliff tops in spring, alive with nature, but resting now. I came here to dream, to think and the slate grey conditions are like a blank page. How different the ocean smells to the harbour, like all the seasons filling the senses at once. A place to shed sadness like a graveyard of thoughts. To lay to rest hostility and forget. 

Dreams hit the sodden ground like anvils too heavy to carry for the distance. The homeward journey will be a lighter one. The sense of loss has long passed and those feelings barely matter now in this reality. 

Poetry (words)

Walk with me.

At the hilltop I can see my breath, my heartbeat pounds at my chest like it can’t find the exit on this adrenaline fuelled high. This is freedom. I have places to be and all the time in the world to get there. Eric the Pomeranian greets me with the usual excitement, this ball of fur skimming the ground like a whirlwind in courtship. I drop to my knees to show gratitude for such a welcome. Bonds are made here. When in passing the familiar we find attachments, connections. 

My thighs ache from the steep incline, so I rest. The ground is damp, but I’m as waterproof as I ever was. No artist could capture this moment, this expanse of life before my eyes. Such movements so fleeting that to blink now would skip several scenes. I’m only just learning to love this season and my head is already way over my heels with adoration. I retain my promise to tread lightly without expectation and these rewards are priceless. 

Onwards. I pass the sheep, still nervous of this two legged beast and I feel the purest sorrow in my heart for the suffering they endure, to death I hope I carry this empathy always. I want the patch of earth where I finally come to rest to be part of this. No headstone necessary no intrusive verse. Bones and nature a peaceful reunion. 

I detest barbed wire. 

The rainfall runs down these hills causing pond like puddles in every dip reflecting blue skies like pools of glass. Insects skim with such grace and I wonder do they feel as blessed as I do. 

“PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE PONIES” screams the sign from the hedgerow, whilst the ponies are nowhere to be seen the sign has always been here. 

I move from sunlight to shade. Dampness fills my nostrils. I adore this aroma. Some would say that it’s tainted with decay, but I smell nature’s relentless cycle of survival. I tread on life here, a cushion of growth below. Acorns already taking root with just the dappled shortened daylight to incubate their journey. Fungi clings to fallen trees, give and take is in abundance, thriving in understanding. 

The knowledge I gain here is irreplaceable, I expect there are libraries bursting with this information, but to be amongst this is beyond reading the experiences of the scientific minds. To run your fingers down the trunk of an oak to feel its life on your skin is knowledge of a different kind. Insight is awakened here. 

I find the moss covered bench and unpack my lunch and my notebook. It’s a scribbling mess, but to those who know me it makes some sense….I think. I don’t tick boxes or keep lists I’m never disappointed because I’m never searching. I don’t want to be in a crowd of people in a competition of pointing at something and missing the point completely. I like coffee from a flask. 

Inquisitive squirrels overhead scrambling to a vantage point. I wonder if they tick boxes….she’s got an apple!! ✔️ I’ll leave half when I’m done. Maybe an orchard will grow, maybe not. My fingertips are cold so I dip out of the shade and into the glow. I pass walkers who smile and nod, some only glance, but I’m ok with a glance. I think we’re all here to be away from there. 

The tractors have left deep muddy paths in which I slide and squelch. I could have avoided them, but to head home without being even slightly stained here wouldn’t feel right. That essence of childhood splattered up my legs is as important now as ever. If I wanted clinical I’d have sat in front of a tv and watched other people walking.

Uphill again, crows caw and starlings gather to perform. They curve and shape the sky around them. Dancing on the thermals no audience necessary. Everyone tells you that you must have goals and dreams….I stand in mine every minute I am here. I didn’t strive to be here, I didn’t climb a ladder. I fight on the side of nature to keep the beauty of these surroundings free. It is the most important thing in my life and it gives more gifts than I can ever convey, but I’ll keep trying. 

Poetry (words)

Deeper meanings 

On certain days the wind makes the last leaves dance, they rise and and glide without the hindrance of limbs. Layers of falling of sun-infused, of rain-soaked shimmering lay at my feet. The corvid calls from the skeletal canopy, breathing life into these wooden skies. Happiness has plans for me and I hear those plans whispering without conditions. A lifetime of searching for something impossible….. not now. Even under the greyest light this love fulfils, no song yet written can compare to the symphony laid out before me. 

Seed heads on gravity’s pull fall silently full of the greatest inheritance. They are the feet in the future, it’s on their limbs that we shall slumber at dusk only to wake beneath the glow of distant constellations. I look for deeper meanings in all the things we fight for, but it doesn’t exist. Humanity is a selfish book in dire need of repair. 

Poetry (words)

The spoken words.

I pressed my bottom lip just below yours. I tasted all of your secrets all of your flaws. In a moment of complete intoxication I gave up wishing.

Outside all of this the stars shine, distant moments burning up another place in time. Your fingers through my hair eclipse the breathlessness. In a moment of epiphany I gave up hoping. 

I am tired of validating every word I said, exhausted by the invisible demons in your head. Fighting non existing battles just to lose the thread. In a moment of ecstasy I let go of this. 

Poetry can’t exist without the spoken words. 

Poetry (words)


I like the dampness on my skin, bound to the ground on a bed of leaves, by choice alone. I am this landscape, interwoven in memories and dreams. I fear nothing here, my safe place alive with the purest of desires.                  
I am never alone here seconds away from touching you. I have words encased in secrecy , they are yours like the ground you walk on. They thrive here, like the ivy wrapped around my heart.


Like your lips on my spine and this freedom I explore. How every light that falls on you captures your flaws, as if it knows I love your flaws. The way your eyes show insecurities that your mouth would never utter. 

You are my fingertips and you drip from my mouth without knowledge. I taste you in every word. 

Poetry (words)


Yesterday I walked. I stepped on the remnants of Summer and filled my lungs with the clearest air. I saw colours with clarity. I felt the stagnation leave my soul. It’s in falling apart that we begin to rebuild, not just lives, but from a much deeper level.  

I’m no longer under the illusion that  my contentment lies in the hands of others. Ultimately people do as they please regardless, like the consequences of our actions don’t matter. Change isn’t hard, change is about how much you really want it. 

Poetry (words)

Grace unfolds 

I watched the gulls swoop and dive, a frenzied harvest on the darkest soil. Grey skies like soft focus on the land. This immeasurable view could fill page after page with wonder. How these slopes entice and embrace, I like the unmapped path, where footprints rather than dictation lead the way. 

Colours staggered like a watercolour left out in the mist, but no less a masterpiece with imperfections intact. My eyes undemanding feast on this, like a silent gift it clings to my mind its grace unfolds with patience. 

I breathe deeply that I might exhale the city from my lungs, but to unleash such a plague in this serenity would puncture my soul, what’s mine remains so. Smoke rises from beyond the hedgerow the charcoal maker’s office. 

Dusk falls quickly now, this clock that we live by for reasons unknown.