from 'At The Frontier'

The diary lay blank. A summer job fell through. The engine in my head ran wild, chopping up clay, foliage, nudging farm machineryto roll loose across the landscape  down into the valley between the old hills.The pool of mud was meat under moonlight. Someone lit fireworks in a darkened annex.The hooded man offered a long-toothed smile.  These things … Continue reading from 'At The Frontier'

Field Party

The sweet trace of fodderon the breeze, the acidof spilled cider. Occasional carstearing up the air, like the invitesnone of us had received.I don’t even remember a house.What signal set us heading outto ooze like summer starlingsfeeding on insects in the sky? Read more at The Poetry Village

The Monks

The river is high these early hours, a fine mist reminding us of the Ghost. Someone coughs inside a distant cell, someone chants matins, somewherea renegade brother brews beer.Reports of plague illuminate our books,while the sandstone walls weep like open wounds. Young friars play football amongst bean canesand wild garlic, daydream of sunon white fences, earthly mores.  Read more on Allegro … Continue reading The Monks

Scrub

Lost from sight where planting and cleared scrubGive on the ride, a plantation to the rightOpposite, unmanaged coppice bolting skywardsBut her bell heard, its tinkling travelled ahead' Free Running Bitch, Andrew Crozier

Midnight Movies

They come in off the streetwith the clammy heat of city storms.Nearly men, chancers, clones,mostly vile. Clothes smeared with cocktail cherries, a smellof pickle brine and cordite.One thumbnail painted blue,ponytails, though they’re mostly bald. The glimmer of a fake horizonworks at their back, day for night,hotdog flesh, a painted skybut the stars are only pricks … Continue reading Midnight Movies