February 9, 2017
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 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.
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.
The roots allow a lean without a fall.
An age long hold quiet and strong.
It has wounds and bits missing,
nevertheless it lives.
Old as it is new,
new as it is old.
February 2017 (5)
February 2016 (1)
A hole looks into a hollow
The mountain above the wood
February 7, 2017
The lady at the well
The figure head
Heart and Hand
a dot, a branch and a turn
February 8, 2016