A weed pretending to be human

I feel more at home among the trees,

As though my body yearns for grass against my skin

And leaves around my soul.

Like a weed pretending to be human-

Growing in the wrong place-

Prickly, green and funny shaped

And looking for something to uproot me.

So I’ll keep pressing flowers between these pages,

Hoping the outlines become veins that I can breathe through;

So petals fall around my feet like bombs,

To move the earth I didn’t want to be planted in.



Wrapped up in bobble hats

And borrowed scarves,

With fluffy socks tucked inside boots,

and hands tucked inside jumper sleeves

where we wipe cold noses

being nipped by winter.

We pop inside for a coffee

and a catch-up;

The warmth from inside steamed up 

my glasses-

The cold from outside frosting up

the windows.

We can only see hazes of

coloured lights and street lights

and shapes of people passing by

with shopping bags and old friends.

Jingle bells play over the clinks 

of teacups and plates

and cosy conversation.

It’s the most wonderful time

Of the year.


Move if you Must

It’s not too late
It’s never too late-
Never too late
But never easy
To please.
I’ll try to sleep,
Lost it again.

Lost in your lips;

your mind.
Move if you must-
I know
I did,
But never as angel do.


Prince of Atlantis

Leaves are plucked

And sown like dust, light and free,

The colour of cinnamon,

Hazel and cherry,

Sprinkled were the water laps,

Smooth and blue,

Against the setting sun.


A sky aflame, bloodshot,

Clouds blushing scarlet overhead,

Dyeing the island and its long, lost city,

The colour of wine.


His hair grows fierce like the sun;

Fallen leaves press upon his skin

Turning pale like the sand.