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A hole looks into a hollow

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.


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 quiet and strong.

It has wounds and bits missing,

nevertheless it lives.

Old as it is new,

new as it is old.

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