Poetry (words)

The house.

Through all its incarnations the house remains unchanged, like a ship repainted dripping in repair, a life lived, scars less obvious, but intact.

The staircase in part reclaimed by nature still grand. On the walls faded outlines of portraits and family trees, layers of time shedding skin.

Stories endure here, echoed scribblings from the writer’s pen, captured and encased unhindered by the present. Tenacious are the dreams that walk these halls.

Veins of melancholia climb like lianas seeking strength firmly rooted in another time.

Light still fills this space. A coloured spectre filters through stained glass to dance upon these walls at sunset before it sinks beneath the land. For now the house belongs to moonlight.

Poetry (words)


In amongst the oldest shadows of this house, on pages strewn in the ebb tide of winter the storytellers memories lie. Skeletal lines await a passing glance that they may live again.

As March approaches, thin splintered sunlight finds a pathway through the shuttered windows. Dust rises and falls, silently, not quite a whisper in this muted damp air, but spring will bring life as it will bring hope and desire.

Faded damask worn from life, like a thread erased and replaced with stories. How a thumb caressed the smooth silk pattern that meanders there still, maybe in shadows creation lingers here.

Bookshelves of a dreamer scattered spaces still to fill, trinkets of stone and bone, of feathers and seeds. Portals to an existence yet to be heard. Can a room dismissed to history narrate without words. Is death the final page of everyone.

Moonlight changes everything and lends its sparkle to the eyes, shadows lengthen and fall beyond these walls, silently they evaporate boundaries, they become pathways through the dark to the dreamer now.

The land is at rest within shallow breaths of the waters edge, ripples unfurl like the deepest sigh of a weary traveller who knows not how he came here, but is thankful for the pause in this tempestuous life.

Water takes on its darkest hue, blackest liquid to stain the night with mystery. The interloper returns through this ink filled inlet, to explore, to be enthralled.

Poetry (words)

The rest.

Autumn, when the blankets of green have left, when the perfumed blooms have faded to stained parchment that hang in stasis until the blade once again stems their slow demise.

It’s now that the air we breathe is visible and all landscapes bear their scars. The long sleep awaits yet the world becomes a noisy reminder of how we shelter in the shade of seasons.

How different life feels when early birdsong clings to sunrise. When the skittish wings of the butterfly capture but a moment of a life more fleeting than a change of heart in a diary.

Now the chimneys bring a leaden hue that will blend with bonfires and petrol fumes. The chop and burn retrospective of mistakes we continue to deny as we huddle in this time….for now.

Poetry (words)

Writer, architect, conjurer

There beneath the flyway memories lay like a breath on the water in autumn air, shimmering into the fade.

Do you find that certain people have the ability to write something that not only captures your heart, but places a map inside your mind too. A map that if cast aside feels like a betrayal to the trust in which it was given.

If you could fill sails with their words all inlets would flow to oceans, faultlessly unhindered like the pages that drew lines towards the headlands.

Does the fallen petal mean the death of a flower or is it just a page finished and freed. That its colour fades is life at speed, a window of opportunity grasped like a pen in the dreamers hand.

Writer, architect, conjurer. I walk within your moods, I see through different windows, but I am drawn by your hand.

Poetry (words)


I say your name in whispers, breathlessly the letters unfold and all the while you create light that punctures shadows. Descriptive you, building visions always, deepest tones that make me ache.

Focused, fixed, engrossed, this feeling you bring, I wait in all of these rooms that you build. Rooms where flowers grow and arms embrace, I write the visions that you evoke in me. I long to continue.

Calmness you bring in abundance here. The thread unraveling inside my heart, infinite as the oceans. Its beginning is lost in tides of time, but it flows through all of these lines.

Poetry (words)

Page undefined.

I sat with history in my palm, the outline of the titles raised text against my fingers. The spine bound without a crease and in this pause I remain. I’ve written pages of words, descriptive insights of feelings past and repetition can’t explain what I feel for you.

It wasn’t in an instant that you became the waters down the mountainside, your presence in my mind defines this. How you flow now, like mist rising, like moonlight through the woodland canopy.

You are these pages, stories that unfold when you speak, the narrator on the path between the horizon and my heart.