Thursday, 2 December 2021


Lying on my sofa in the late-afternoon sun
I sink into time, and time takes me 
To the duck-egg blue of the cabinet
And I see that somebody – somebodies –
Made all of this.
Wrote these books,
Painted these paintings,
Fitted these windows, more than once;
Plastered these walls,
Played this music,
And laid these pine floorboards,
A century and more ago.
Somebodies made these things of beauty,
These things of practicality,
And now their commingling voices
Come rippling through time.
Countless hands, countless minds,
Countless contributions, both seen and unseen;
Cups of tea made,
Dishes washed,
Secrets heard, 
Locks fixed.
Tears streaming down my face, now I see:
The preciousness of our souls cannot be measured
By the size or visibility of our contributions.


Monday, 15 November 2021


No more pain, the wind says - 
You've been too long in its quicksand. 

Beyond the muteness, 
Beyond the cravenness,
There's this -
This inlet where the tide comes in
These limpet-strewn rocks and
The orange beak of the oystercatcher
In the dim winter light.

Yes, layer upon layer has been stripped,
But what of wildness?
On this rain-lashed beach
It will no longer wait.
It wants me back:
I have been on loan to civility for far too long. 

Monday, 1 February 2021


If I was uninhibited
my hair would be wild and long
my eyes would be kohl-ringed (like they used to be)
I would wear silver boots – legs akimbo -
and show my cleavage whenever I felt like it. 
If I was uninhibited
my house would be a sumptuous,
beautiful, eccentric mess -
as would I.
And if I was uninhibited
I would take up space like I meant it;
Sisters, there would be so much more of me.
If I was uninhibited, you would know me.
If I was uninhibited,
I would take back my sexuality -
lock stock and both smoking barrels -
and refashion it entirely for my own ends
If I was uninhibited
I would be spunky as you like
spilling over with generosity
I would be in the fray, punching my weight,
all muscles and teeth-baring,
snarling, howling, shrieking uproariously
and with the biggest shit-eating most glorious radiant grin
you have ever seen -
that is, when I wasn’t being silent because -
well, because.

Friday, 15 January 2021

On the Quiet

On the quiet, 
this cold and misty morning,
grace comes in - 
somewhere between sofa and window -
and tells me that I am forgiven.

Straight away,
I know that I am being forgiven
for trying to steal fire from the gods
and spilling my own jar of evils. 

Grace sneaks in
on the quiet,
subtle as always;
forgiveness does not come in a blaze of angels. 

You are forgiven, and I will be with you always. 

Wednesday, 27 February 2019


I bathe in the bittersweetness
of ill sons
and bereaved friends
and strangers connecting
and and and
old friends back on track
and death in life
and birth after death
and the limitations of language
and the beauty of words
and pain with depth
and the realness of me
and all this turning upside down
and creation from destruction
and who'd have thought it
and I wouldn't have guessed
and we know so much
and we know so little

and the bittersweetness
sits in my heart
and pulls at my heartstrings
(you know we have heartstrings)
and I'm in love with it all
and I wouldn't want anything less
and I'm not looking for anything more

I bathe in bittersweetness,
that tang in the heart that leaves nothing to do
and nowhere to go
and the tears run down my cheeks
and one drops from the end of my nose
and I can't pretend that I don't love it all
and that this isn't what my heart was made for

Sunday, 30 September 2018

The Second Coming

The meek shall inherit the earth. 

Quake in your boots:
Those who presume on the souls or bodies of others
Those who assume title, rank or reign
Those who betray heart-filled goodness,
Those who sunder the flesh of innocents to feed the maws of greed
Such vile, violent treason.

Quake in your boots:
The meek are rising to reclaim the earth 
This is the second coming. 

Sunday, 29 October 2017

It Is Not Necessary

It is not necessary to demean yourself
Or to dramatize your life
(it is not a fiction
and neither are you).

The proliferation of things has brought us scant riches.

I grieve for the poverty of plenty,
for the ignorance of knowledge. 

Our souls do not long for complication. 

True nourishment is simple fare:
taste, touch, smell, sound, sight. 

The heart loves
The mind thinks
The stomach digests
You are the perfect orchestration of being,
an instrument of wonder. 

(It is not necessary to demean yourself).