A collection of poems that I wrote for North Light Arts about a forest called Woodhall Dean Swallowed by a ship The bough, borne in a cup, once in touch with the sky. One trunk, two arms, ten fingers gone. The congregation The bark on the trunk is grey in colour, thick and rough. Beneath there lies a seventy four gun ship, a door, a shrine and a round table. Natural, polished, stained or fumed, to fight, to walk, to die and talk. Sleeves An oak in Woodhall Dean leans back. It’s branches sleeved with green moss, and patches of black and white lichen. His neighbour has a hole. perfectly round and dark, A hole looks into a hollow. A lean The roots allow a lean without a fall. An age long hold q
It is winter and I put my walking boots on before setting out. It is early and just me and Matt. 'Have you got the compass and the map,' I ask, and he squints and nods. He is checking off his list in his head. Matt is so much better at climbing mountains than I am; he is a planner, a list maker and he has his eyes open. I on the other hand get lost, I don't remember where I have just been and I can't see a path for looking. A dark cluster of hills, with white sheets draped over them lie to our west. It is cold and we walk towards them uphill. Scots pine, birch and alder, stem up from an undergrowth so thick that it soaks the line above our gaiters. The path has steps cut in and today they a
The lady at the well has carried this water for decades. She lives north and the fields and hills roll on to meet the sky. Her land is divided by dry stain; it is where she belongs. 'I was born here and I shall die here. The scarf I wear is my mothers and the water I drink from the well is my life. I know who I am, and this is my home'. Beyond the wall to the west there lies a forest called Woodhall Dean, the land is covered with Oak and Hawthorn. Trunks with rich sleeves of green; old, grey, crooked. The lady has held the forest close. She walks and they stand still. She listens and they tell tales about; the wind, the moon, the stars. Oaks have welcomed her arms and her lean. She sits and
The figure head Held up by ribs, fixed to bow. She looks up, looks out and dips down. Her wooden pins hold, the hollow oak, the wave and the foam.
A new poem written in response to a conversation about autonomy at the end of life with Dr Ben Colburn, and a reflection on a potter. You create a real and whole object from your hand In total it stands made by you Autonomous and true and near to me His heart is the place earthed Touching a cold surface he shapes it round in his hand turn Now ash now down now down and under His objects stay and his light remains Never ash never down and under