at midnight

I find myself

in your sleeping


in your shallows

your tilt         your pucker

in the creases

and the talcum

of your skin


in your depths

your flail         your clasp


in your loaming

and the ripening

of your seedling limbs



Spent all weekend taking part in a #52hrFilm challenge and made this visual poem based on a quickly penned piece of flash fiction.

Such fun and great weather!

a point from last Thursday now etched in a line on my left hand

Palms up
I just don’t know
how he got here

recumbent in a sea
of gulls pulling at
crusts that an

old lady has spread
like happiness across
the pavement

in an effort to add
colour and kindness
to her morning

He holds his palm out
asking for one thing
my own doubt

obvious as I offer
him a hot drink or
a snack instead

He shrugs but smiles
thanking me and listing
lunch deal items

I redden and
wave my hands
in a gesture

that is empty of words
but replete with
body language

and sandwich filling
choices made for him
this man on the corner

of a street that
I walk down almost
every day of the week

The next time he
asks me for a Crunchie
he has remembered me

like a hand keeps
stories nooked in
the crannies of its skin

Sitting under a blanket is the best thing you can do between October and April

My crochet blanket smells of toast

It isn’t that it’s not been washed

it just embodies comfort

and catches the dreams

that fall out of me

while I am dozing

Because the radiator is turned up

very hot

and I am like a lizard

that crochets

and has orange hair

Sometimes I stick my tongue out

to catch crumbs

while I wait for spring to reappear

Light always follows

There’s comfort in the sound
of the first bird
that calls from the dark
in the absence of cars
in the vacuum of space
that sits in the place somewhere
between 4 and 5am

There’s comfort in knowing that
yesterday will not be coming back
that those lessons learnt
last year
last month
or just the week
before are done with

Even though more will be lurking
like black cats bringing the lie
of magic or death

There’s comfort in the breath
from an unknown body in your ear
when the fear of intimacy
is far scarier than
a walk of shame
red cheeks the embers
from the night before

There’s comfort in forgetting
and then also of remembering
that we’re all
just making up a story
as we slide through life

and the ones about the other
serpents in our circle
are tiny slices

Or at best just drawn from memory
and only recognisable to
our own small ego

There’s comfort in
and comfort outside
the box and most of all
in letting go of boxes
that we place between ourselves and others

though it’s a harder path to take
it’s one I’d like to get to know

There’s comfort in the sound of
The first bird that calls from the dark
In the absence of cars
In the vacuum of space
That sits in the place somewhere
between 4 and 5am