photography · poetry

A Small Piece of Happiness



I found a small piece

Of happiness.

It’s warm-

Not too hot;

It’s small-

Not so big

That I can’t cup it in my hands

And crouch with it,

Wondering how I can bottle

Such an airy thing.

It’s light-

So light I only just feel

Its crawl towards my heart;

So transparent it’s hard to tell

It’s not already left.


I know it’s there

I do not need to see it,

I feel it;

Warmth, wholeness…

How can such a tiny thing be so much?

I daren’t ask it;

Daren’t breath too loud,

It appears so fragile

Compared to its brothers and sisters

Perhaps I shouldn’t doubt

What I cannot see.

Something that fills me with

Such a glow cannot be weak.


But if it isn’t it

Then it must be me.

photography · poetry

I am not Myself


I am not myself. I’ve never been so,

My shadow and I just follow my feet

Down empty roads beneath the rusty glow.

In thought and solitude I’ll take my seat.

But have no pity, for I am not lost;

I can find parts of myself here and there.

Like here in the lone company of frost,

I sit with the dew drops, silent as prayer.

And I find myself in this little world

Of small falling leaves and a blushing wind;

Of tiny, wet flowers, glinting as pearls-

That which those with companions would have skimmed.

I am not myself, I’ll never be such,

But here and there, I can amount to much.

photography · poetry


P1000523 (2)Left only in the company

Of slithers of light along the wall,

Drawing harsh, poetic lines

Across my work.

What happened to the day?

At what point did the sun give in

Laying waste to all I’ve written?

What happened to my words?

When did they too, abandon me

Leaving me like a shadow in the dark

Unseen and reluctantly accepted?

photography · poetry



Castle walls of mossened stone
Etched in charcoal, left exposed
To the wind and sharp presence of ghosts
Looking out lonely, broken windows.

They look at the moon stressing golden cliffs,
Its aura stained grey by the clouds;
Black shapes writhing like beasts
Caged by the rocks.

Lights flash, far and dim,
From a world held in the distance,
Muted by the sea.
It sounds angry, baying at the sands
Set out like a canvas;

Brush strokes in sea weed, shells
And footprints long since washed;
Lives since drained,
Leaving only whispers pulled through time.

photography · poetry

Up On Broomhill


Blacks clouds crackle like static

And cause my roses to wilt and waste away,

So instead of picking flowers

I end up raising the dead

Who ride on the wind

To arrive like thieves at my door.

I am almost tempted to let them in,

But they’d only turn to dust

To dance and swirl in the cracks of my castle

And sing from the shadows on lonely nights.