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Familiar

It’s not only in the colours and outlines
of the soft rounded hills and calabrese trees,
and every possible variant of the colour green, under a grey sky.

It’s also in the patterns of rust
drawing maps on corrugated roofs
of trackside farm buildings.
It’s in the wells of deep hoof print 
in black sodden earth
surrounding a trough of water.
It’s in the living fence-posts of moss-damp wood,
and beacons of fresh-yellow timber
where it has been recently mended.
It’s in the crown-of-thorns birds-nest
visible through naked limbs of a winter oak.
It’s in the irregular circles of tiny yellow lichen
on the unique fragments of our planet
which make up ancient stone walls.
It’s in the fragile chandeliers, of frosted spiders-webs
that decorate an evergreen hedge.

When I return, 
I find my home
in the details of Britain. 



This poem was written in the autumn/winter of 2016, whilst I was visiting the UK. 
Since moving to France, it feels like I have been given new eyes for my home country. A new appreciation for the beaut…

Father, Forgive Them

'Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him.'

Calendar's rhythm thuds.
The kick drum rattles your rib cage
As collective memories and communal routines
Plume like dust from that undulating skin.
.....You must wrap gifts in superfluous paper,
.....That's tradition. .....Yet repeating acts to underline thankfulness, .....That's superstition. Calendar's rhythm thuds And we bellow through that dust cloud, Clearing our throats and averting our eyes. THUD For the drum announces the sales THUD The rhythm is the anthem of vacation gifts. So discard the old and ugly, To find the beauty, To spend and to own. 

'They came to the place that is calledThe Skull'
Excited skin bristles. Chill shivers the spine in want For purpose and ergonomics dim in contrast To the lights, and the efficacious movement of the crowd. .....So much spectacle, .....All these plate glass doors, .....Are diamond pimples covering the  .....Universal symbol of death. Excited skin bri…

Announcement: Easter Joy and Justice Arts Project

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If you are anywhere near Northwest London this Easter you should go along to the Easter Joy and Justice Arts Project in Northwood.  

It's 'An amazing opportunity to engage with various art pieces, created by 13 local artists, and see the Easter narrative in a new light. The project combines the Easter narrative with issues of justice (e.g. homelessness, poverty, climate change, drought) and brings together these concepts through various pieces of reflective and transformative light.'

It's running from 11th to the 22nd of April, for specific times and more details follow the link.




Le Printemps Arrive

Gentle chill
mingles with
February sun
to warm my bones,
and prick my skin with cold. 


Lake calm
sleep breath waves
expose the broken shells
that make up the earth, and
keep the land believing in winter. 

When I lived in the U.K. the first sunny day of spring would burn itself onto my memory with relief from the cold, joy in the warmth, and anticipation for the summer to come. Most years I would write a poem on that day about my excitement (such as 'I have missed the sun' written in April 2011). 

Now I live in Montpellier in the south of France, that feeling comes a little earlier in the year. This year it was towards the end of February, when we were at the beach near Sète for the day. It was warm but the (relative) cold of winter was still clinging to the air. The feeling given by the weather matched the relief and thankfulness we feel at finally moving into our flat here in Montpellier. 

Resident Aliens

Surrounded by the displaced
I will work tirelessly
To renounce my citizenship.
My silhouette in this system
Is cast by the shadow of my ego,
The me that belongs was made for death
And I will no longer conform to its will. 

With everything that happened in 2016, the question of national identity and citizenship is a hot topic. This poem is named after the book by Stanley Hauerwas and William H. Willimon which discusses the nature of the church and its relationships to the cultures it exists within. 
Christians are not supposed to be citizens belonging to the cultures of this world, but Resident Aliens, living uncomfortably within yet with our identity firmly planted in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. At a time when the world has more displaced people than ever on record, most of us in our comfortable western lives, will be encountering 'aliens' on a regular basis. Let this new year be an opportunity to extend grace to those who do not fit into our nation's cultural mores…

Mourning After

The country I now call home is bleeding
a senseless and panicked red,
diluting its pain in the silence
of normal morning routines.
I still make my love the coffee
I promised before we'd risen and seen the news,
before we'd thought of the inevitability
of children at fireworks,
and how this the attacker knew.
She looks so beautiful,  eyes heavy and glistening with unspilt tears. 
Neither of us knowing how to use words,  how to understand the reality of atrocity.  Beyond the consolations of world leaders,  beyond social media reactions,  beyond the spin this will be used for,  beyond the excuses and explanations,   beyond the claims of responsibility and repeating backlash,  beyond the reports and crafted articles,  beyond the frames of the chosen photographs.  The truth is shards of lacerating glass.  It is a blood-stained truck and pieces of people.  It is a child's excitement dashed against terror  and extinguished by brutal impact.  It is eighty-four funerals   and countless grieving loved ones.…

The Urn

Spacial awareness  
let us down again,
and shattered another urn,
spilling that morbid sand.
In the irritation of 
vacuuming respectfully we give a moment of meaning  back to sooty remains. 
Referendums pass the time.  They draw out experts who,  with shouts and keystrokes,  fling the spittle of their opinion.  Elections pass the buck.  With their signs and slogans  they draw out the masses  to choose between arsenic and anthrax. 

The French call their ballot box an urn. 
It is where we cast  the ashes of our expired ideals,  to be scattered amongst  the winning or loosing percentage,  as the fate of the nation  teeters on the whims   of fickle voters and loyal tabloid readers. 
All the projected outcomes  are varied shades of ash,  and a different decor  of the receptacle   of each demographic:  deceased and incinerated. 
For the system is built on the cinders of our remains.  




Written in June 2016 out of desperation while thinking about: Voting in the EU referendum; about the upcoming US presidential elections; a…