Paint me another red balloon please, Mr Banksy paint it with a longer string and tie it around my wrist so that it won’t escape from my little fingers and float into the sky to become a tiny dot that disappears forever; and please Mr Banksy don’t paint the wind, let it be still so that my hair doesn’t cover my eyes and my dress doesn’t flap around my knees and if the string becomes undone my new balloon won’t blow away. Continue reading Please, Mr Banksy
If I Were A Tree where would I spread my roots? where would I spend my seasons? where would my leaves shoot? In that field over there you know, the sloping one that the boy lays down in on summer days when the sun goes in and out, in and out and he makes creatures out of the clouds and sees crocodiles and dogs and wizards with pointy hats that turn into into wisps of cotton wool nothingness. Yes, that is the field the one you can see from your bedroom window the field that slopes down to the stream, … Continue reading If I Were A Tree
Another salty jaw rises, the gaping mouth widening as it arcs towards the ancient wall of Portland stone that snakes its way eastwards, a tumble of black granite boulders extending its protective reach. The jaw crashes down smashing onto the top of the sloping wall white teeth breaking onto centuries old rock that will not yield or sate the appetite of the ocean’s wild and relentless cavernous mouths that collapse into hissing torrents of saline saliva rolling back into the swelling anger readying itself to attack again and again. Continue reading The Cobb Wall at Lyme Regis
A swerving ribbon of tarmac leads down to your humped back that stretches over a river hidden by the spring flood of mud-brown water spilled by broken banks. The river’s banks host summer picnickers each side of your ancient arch, children paddle in the upstream shallows, and skim flat stones beneath you that bounce out the other side. Nearby cows graze undisturbed while others lap at a stony shore. In the autumnal after-storm sun your white railings gleam. Visitors return, once again standing on your back watching the fast flowing river journey under your aged stonework, heading towards the unseen … Continue reading The White Bridge
Being blinded by the early evening sun, I drove into the hospital grounds, searching for a space, any space in which to squeeze my car; this seemed such a long time ago as I stood in the dark, with space all around and only one vehicle to be seen – which was mine. I had entered the hospital grounds in sunlight but left under emptying clouds; I did not want to leave my son back there, struggling to survive, fighting for air. Go home the nurses said, go to bed, get some rest, come back fresh in the morning. Where … Continue reading The Midnight Drive
‘I done it,’ he called up the stairs. ‘I used four matches – all at once,’ he added. I zipped up and charged down, a deep bass drum pounded inside my chest, and there it was, in all of its flickering amber glory, growing, climbing the sooted chimney, before my white-soled sandal stomped its frightened authority on paper and kindling. As it crackled and spat, and fire clung to my scarred sole, extinguished only by a dance on the tiled hearth, and I asked, ‘What d’you do that for?’ And my little brother replied, ‘Coz you couldn’t do it with … Continue reading Four Matches
Walking the streets in the small country town I see memories in each pavement crack, all the fun and laughter the here ever after in the place I know as my only home town. I could have stayed but decided to leave memories of my own in the place that is my one and only home town. The river flows past my old country town I hear the ghosts as laughter floats by beneath the white bridge where we played in the sun beside the place I know as my only home town. I should have stayed I decided to … Continue reading My Only Home Town
When he opened his eyes to a snow-tipped peak the only love of his life is missed those sparkling mountain tops all hikers seek brought to life her eyes and the lips he once tenderly kissed. His lids lifted to a tranquil blue lake still as ice before the day had begun early birds soared high, no sound did they make all day he would mourn, beneath the warm sun. The rays slashed colour across the wide skies horizon of purple, orange and pinks an unused pillow drew tears from his eyes the bed’s icy space, his heavy heart sinks. … Continue reading Waking
Thinking, so overrated so tiring such a time wasting pastime. Contemplating, this life what comes after I can’t be deliberating not enough time to cogitate. Reasoning, no time for logic no time for order no time for thinking… or so I thought. Continue reading Thought
From Bristol to Brighton & Bach 