On not writing

Through the cottage window, you can see the trees, and the leaves from those trees coat the ground, and a long rowing boat lies face down on those leaves. That is all that is seen.

The winter sun breaks through from about 8am onwards. By half 2, it retreats.

Walking through the woods at lunchtime, afternoon, dawn. The dogs come, they live on this island; no leads. At the water’s edge Max, the Jack Russell, flits like a wren between the tree roots reaching out over the shoreline. He bolts across the path, disappearing for stretches of time only to be discovered in the distance, a bright brown and white guardian between distant trees, checking that his visitors don’t get lost.

Venturing deeper. The cottage cannot be seen from here, and wouldn’t be able to be picked out from the weak winter sky anyway. Panic trickles into the chest; branches on the ground that should be firm give way under the boot; the ground becomes soft.

A tree that could be named three years ago stands where it has always stood, impassive, indifferent. What could possibly be a Jay screaming up in the thin treetops could be something else and so passes without the visitor knowing what it is. Panic gives way to sorrow: this walk is not restorative. Much has been abandoned.

Tree roots are stumbled over. A boot becomes lodged in the bog and the foot escapes from it. Falling, the eye level plummets to the carpet of leaves.

Leaves that presumably were once green and attached to branches during Spring and Summer, before turning brown and falling to the ground.

Yes, much has been abandoned before this point.

The dogs know the way. Eventually, we begin to follow them.


red arrows, falmouth, 13 August 2015.

Harbourscape thumbed

Chalk red, blue,

dirty sighs from sharp shined jets.

Abdominal muscles press through to spines and hands press


through grass blades to the earth; grip the cold metallic frame of deckchairs,

reach through gloves to control wheels –


And the eyes they overreach, searching the thin lines between joy and fear



At the checkout

I suspend us and run back, past

More aisles than I remembered

there were, an elastic

between us,


Hooke’s Law,

F = -kX, and

just before the snap
I pick it up


Checkout after checkout

Homogeneity released from heterogeneity

In the kitchen, it is already feeding,

Burping, multiplying –

I spread the cling film over

The bowl, a starter for a bubble

That will rise, a dough that will exhale

Like a city


My brother, whether he realises it or not, is still at one with his roots. His current residence is in Didcot, five miles south of Oxford, a top floor flat of a two-storey apartment that nestles amongst red-bricked houses with brown window frames. If you look at his housing estate on Google maps, it bears anatomical resemblance to a heart, with a main road for an artery that feeds off into little capillary cul de sacs. Here he lives with content, over five hours’ drive from the nearest family member. My brother is unmoved by places and locations. It’s not that he particularly likes living in suburbia; it’s more that the things about suburbia that people loathe, or admire and are drawn to, simply aren’t of interest to him.

At least they don’t seem to be of interest to him. It can be hard to tell sometimes.

The red kites didn’t seem to interest him, not even the one I saw out of his lounge window, patrolling the suburb with bent head, its wings and tail forming angles unfamiliar to me.

“But look at it! It’s incredible! And it’s rare!” For me, this Red Kite was a big deal; only the third I’d ever seen, the first two being sighted on the way here as they flew over the M40. In the 16th century, the Kite was persecuted to the edge of extinction in the British Isles for being verminous, and then in the 19th century, when their numbers were so low, it was pursued for being rare and valuable. Egg collectors all but wiped them out, leaving only a handful left to breed in Wales. After around a hundred years of conservation efforts, the Red Kite is now enjoying some resurgence, particularly in this area of England.

“You think every bird is a Red Kite,” he replied good-humouredly, turning back to his PS3.

The following morning after breakfast, I slipped out. I’d sighted a straight concrete path from the bathroom window and had decided to go looking for it. The houses were silent; around them, the scrubby spots of hedges and trees turning to bud were noisy with sparrows and blackbirds. Crossing a road, I found the path and was led through a small grassy park, into cul de sacs that themselves held paths to other cul de sacs. I was soon lost in the capillaries.

The Kite I’d seen yesterday was already patrolling its patch, floating with a calm rigidity a few metres above the rooftops. Much has been said about these birds of prey and their striking long, forked tails; less has been said about the fact that the toy of the same name that’s cast into the air and held up by the wind was so called because of the manner of the bird’s flight. There was something arresting about how the bird above me used its tail to feel its way and lock into the wind’s unseen gusts and fluctuating thermals – it was if it were double jointed. As it swung and paused directly over my head, for several, separate split seconds, it seemed to lose its sense of animation; it was, in one and the same moment, a bird and the semblance of a bird; in flight, and suspended in flight. I had an urge to test the tautness of tightened string, and I felt my thumbs twitch deep in my coat pocket.

It was magical. I stared up at it; it didn’t stare back, but continued to monitor the cul de sac, eyes keen for carrion, perhaps, or a spilt bin bag. I suddenly felt sorry for it. Such a creature, I thought, should be scanning fields and hedgerows. Looking around me at the tarmac, the red bricks and the brown window frames, I felt a familiar and directionless sense of guilt.

The bird disappeared from view. I remained standing there for a few moments, suspended as if in fluid. And as I stood there I wondered whether, if I ever came back to these parts, I would become more like my brother, and in time not bother to raise my head at the Kites that carved their way through the Oxfordshire skies.

Wee January poem

His fingers furred with Dorito dust

Orange light / Aztec fashion

have long dispensed with the Finlandia kitchenware.

We use what is not ours.

The record collection pressed against

The wall that is not our wall, is, however.

Spines with their own smile lines, weak, white.

I like to think it listens to us

as we mop gravy from Finlandia

wash up, fold stiff towels

and move on, upstairs.


I left Billy Joel on to make

the clock ticks reverberate

against the clothes horse, book piles,

gifted television set, broken chair.

The ironing board, at rest

divides room from storage



printed with use

Halangy village, St Mary’s


Two sea kayakers turn

their heads to the land they left

earlier, seeing a jumble

of grey and green.


Each stone has a story, a home.

All of us are


wait to be moved.


I’m the top bird, this is

my ground. I tug life

out of here for as long as I

can see, before light dims.

I can never be sure it will return

when it goes.

I have mouths to feed,

instincts to attend to.


At Halangy village,

we need maps to understand

what we’re walking on.


Carpets of grass

the eternity of stone

scoops of space

with meaning;


The eye tries to restore roofs,

soon gives up and ascribes

names and shapes to clouds.


Before, humans with tools and brushes

gently scraped time away


In an office, at a desk,

a piece of paper rests:

a plan for where to place the maps,

where best to share

what isn’t known.


Now, no smells.

but once, pungent smoke

the cooking of fish skin

the whiff of animal shit.


The peace is alarming

being where my race

failed to survive,

a place left behind.


I’m Alex! The dog! I’m off! Exploring!

No lead on! Off!

My favourite place is here!


This is my village

But we cannot continue.

I’m the leader, it dies,

in my hands.