under the gull


under a gulls breath
I am rock
lichen loved bones
buried deep in the
bird bombed
lemon belled coated cliffs
each strip of wind
a little death
to a fug filled gut
and long held breath
flies to the brine
filled pools of sun
from this opened door


marsh flats

‘Wader populations are declining worldwide, with causes often being linked to the loss and degradation of habitats, increased predation, and a changing climate.’
British Trust for Ornothology


I am whole
where the wind washed
water runs in
seeking familiar homes
among the glassworts
marsh runs and rivulets

I am a singular audience
of plovers and godwits
scittering before the gentle flood
exciting the curlew’s curing trill
a salt scented avowal
that nature holds on

tracking the snarks

snark tracks lead
through the brush
claws out
strafing the mud
be careful how you
pick your path
which poisoned fronds
to push aside
which turns to make

their golden song
will weave false
threads in your ears
and draw you like
a moon pulled tide
to a hidden grove
their craven moot
where they gnaw on
the bones of their young

heather’s song

her hand rests
gentle on the heather
with it’s thousand silent bells
not persuaded by
the unsettled breeze
to give up a song
but a whisper instead
from the sea

always she waits
pinned like a dusty moth
to a promise and a doubt
her hope chasing the lost
fire of a sunset over
the hungry ocean
a devotion to redeem such
joy in her heart again