Unordered Songs

It was April in June; spring's very own month of non-stop decadence two months overdue. All of the trees, and all of the tangled roots and shoots below them, were erupting in a lusty chorus of wind-tickled new growth, the tick-tock of dandelion clocks and (if you listened carefully) the provocative ripening of stickybuds...

I thought of Pete speaking magic in his leather jacket, pointing out over a watercolour city, talking about the wonders of creation, making my friend blush just with his pro-noun-ci-ation,

Tiny thing, Pink-faced and cradle-capped, Swaddled in a blanket that reeks of smoke. Your bright smile ricochets around the white walls, Over the heads of tired-looking health visitors,

It rained all day today the clouds were bloated and heavy and the spires of the colleges poked up into the grey stone-cold and unmoved. My friend stroked her bump and laughed her way

Poetry is in your blood; the vinyl floor is sticky with it, An alphabet of pills stuffed into your stomach: Aspirin, Bedranol, Citalopram. I stumble...

Scott learned to climb in a fifteenth century church in Bristol. Even after everything – the smashed body, the intrusive dreams, Morgan’s tearful...

‘Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold' - Yeats.

A body I thought would be mine forever Is creasing, folding, changing shape; Skin becoming mapped by lines that show Each tendon ridge, each blue-...

Revised a bit... I dreamt I held a wren; Its eyes huge with fear, And body warm and frantic, Pressing a throbbing breast Into my palm.