It is so wrong that he has rights,

the man who murdered Grace.

He should have none, as on that night

he took all hers away.

We should all now learn of his name.

Unpixellate his face

so he can only live in shame

in contempt and disgrace.

We can but hope that his new home

is nice and warm and clean

a place where this sad nameless bloke

learns just what rough sex means.

Mortis – A Short Story

Mortis is a short story about Ben.

Ben walks to work every day. The route he chooses takes him through urban woodland. It isn’t the shortest route, but Ben needs the green peace of the trees before he can face another grey day in the office.

One day he discovers a den, and a man, and a different way of living altogether.

You can find this story on my Medium site. I rather like it.


Radio Head On

Late at night, when I’m driving,

with my radio head on, I have

a sense that all the world

a there before me, and all

I have to do is keep going

until I reach wherever it is

that I am heading. I love

the quiet night, the way the

street lights and headlamps

open shadows to show the unlit

ones they hide, the robbers,

the lovers, the night workers,

and others, covered in blackness,

smothered and blessed by

its dark kiss. Sometimes I feel

that I should not stop, that I

should drive on until I drop

off the edge of this world,

listening to the exit music

for my singular, insular film.

But the road, like time,

goes on and on. It is a means.

There is no end to it,

the tarmac black, the way,

the life, the road ahead.

May it always rise

with you.

A Mystery

When I kissed you as you left

today, we were as close as we could get

and yet we were still indistinct

to each other, from one another, thinking

different things together, separating.

We had been so close that what was on you

was now on me. I took your scent, tasted it,

carried it on my lips, the essence of you

with me still, in your absence. We had

been so close but still I could not know

what was in your mind, or in your heart.

We believe we know, we coupled folk, we

long-time lovers and lifers together, but

it isn’t true. We never do. I don’t know you,

you don’t know me.

Perhaps that is as it should be.

This may be true for all the others,

for all the unknown, untouched,

untold lovers.

What we all know, if nothing else:

we are a mystery to ourselves.

No Other

Loving you

Is hard to do

I’m not an easy lover

But loving you

Is easy too

For me there is

No other

The Last Snows Of Winter

white flakes of snow curl and swirl

in sheets unfurling like lace petticoats

the kind that girls used to wear when

the weather was not unmade by man

the wind-whistling sound as it blows all

around sends shivers through trees

and through me birds quiver in shelter

no twitter from them or from me

today just retreat into home to a place

that is warm or a little less cold anyway

days of cold days like these they give

pause they just freeze any thoughts that

may pass through my mind the hiatus

will pass soon the grass will be seen

spring green and bursting with life

and the sun will shine on like it always

has done and the world will be born

once again

The Moment Settles

In an obscured room, trying and failing

to write. Reworking, rewriting, retrying.

Failing again.

A pause.

The moment settles on me.

A weekday morning, alone in the house.

Wind blows through the eaves, traffic rumbles

and heaves. A golden blade of sunlight pierces

the armour of curtain, striking the wall,

sparking thoughts. It is late winter cool.

In these autumn years, the taste of spring

in the air, seasoned, salt and pepper hair,

I wonder what is there now, what is left

for me to do from this moment on?

Past working, past fathering, past building

a future, I sit and do what I wanted to

when the past was a present of youth. The

years gone before now number more than the

years yet to come, but I am not done.

I’ll carry on, though the writing is wrong,

and to right it would take me too long.

There is more to life.

There are birds to hear, seas to swim,

there is love to give, and to receive. There are

the miracle moments yet to come: spring;

baby cries; the kiss of a child; laughter

of friends, given freely; moonlit nights;

the scent of jasmine; more than this, more

than can be said in one lifetime.

I lean back, and as if to say yes, I am blessed

with a kiss from the sun on my face.