Thursday, April 10, 2014


February's dappled green light
seeps in through brown velvet
as the starlings on the rooftop
cry out to the golden day;
a chorus of speckled blue-green-black.

I find a silver locket
from a time long gone
and think of shipwrecks
and ancient forests
exposed from under 
storm-stripped sand;

The world around us 
is ever-shifting
and I am scared
to lose my meadow
to the winds.

A part down deep inside of me
needs called up to the surface;
selkie tales in the night's dark gloaming.

The magpies
at the foot of the hill
hold secrets back from the breeze;
new meanings for the sky.

One flies to me
and laments
a broad, low ballad;
loss in the muddy, fresh morn.

I sing back, in the rain
and wait for the light to find its way.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Farlow Road

Spring has started to open
all the creaking windows
inside this house
and there are spurts of green
inside my room
that I have never seen before;
the language of flowers.

The wild winds of March have 
rattled the chimney
and shaken the trees,
and yet a calmness
has crept in; somehow,
with the debris of winter.

I search out cracks in
the ground that hold hidden
growth; tiny fault lines
seeped in colour.

Nights come; fresh and wild,
and I dream of my housing estate,
with its wild flower meadow
beside the Farlow Road bus stop.
I see my brother carrying that river rat
home in his boy hands,
through our back garden
and into the kitchen, once again.

Dawn pulls me back into my tall, bright room
and I can still hear the trickle of the Nelson Drive stream;
a green and golden childhood. 

Sunday, March 2, 2014


The soft, slow beat of the tree's life
hums low in the depth of the morning
-and you are there; hovering.
A hummingbird a midst
a gathering of crows.
I wait for the dew to sing
and wrap twine around drying roses
-underneath cast iron and grey mist.
Your spirit seeps through the wood
and calls the green back up 
from the soil;
I draw circles around my words
and remember your bullfinches;
on the first day of March.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Milk flower

February, once more
and the world is hopping
outside of one circle,
into the next;
new beginnings.
The sky- red peach
-awakening to the 
deep call of crows
at the first frost of morning.

Saint Bride has carried
back the light
on the wings of the oystercatcher,
and the islands
are painting their hills
green in gratitude.

I fill my room with lavender
and sea thistle
in brown medicine bottles;
A botanical apothecary of life.

You send words to me
across a stormy sea,
and I remember the wild flowers of Inch island
in August's haze.

But the light is changing/
and all around of us
will be translated
into other words;
written on the wind.

I dress in white, again
and welcome back the snowdrops;

Wednesday, January 29, 2014


Driving across our island,
Grey rain pounds down onto green and red;
Christmas on Inch.
Beautiful ruins appear all around of us
as the storm dances in
 across the Swilly
-ancient destruction.

I have thirty years now,
and all that once went before
is being reflected,
from my insides-out.
Each green-blue speck from the past
has come out to dance
upon the waves.


Streaming out,
to a soundscape of oystercatchers.
We are alone on the strand
as you fill the sand
with your words;
Joy for the newly born circle.

We breathe in the New Year's arrival
under a crescent moon, 
that sits above a butter yellow door.

Folkloric waves over one curlew's call
and I find balance amidst the chaos;
dove grey against the slate.

The first silver of evening skims over the lough
and I can hear Aedh's harrowing voice 
on the inside of my hands;Swansong.

I would wait three hundred years.
To hold the memory of this oyster grey calm.

Sunday, September 1, 2013


You hover
above the space
in between
myth and
the straight line
and the curve.
Iridescent as the Springtime/
mysterious as the Winter's grip.

You cross  my path

and nothing that
was sung before
still matters, now.
Green dappled light
swims through the air
at Penpont
and I count the swifts;
out loud.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

New constellation

I made him a star bird
on tracing paper,
In a field with a gypsy caravan
beside me/ that black mountain
above me/ this unknown valley inside my hands.

Watching the sky
grey-gold aswirling
into the afternoon
I feel the haar stretch out
its fisherman limbs;
rewriting ancient tales on the Usk.

We keep 
the river on our right
and meander through wild flowers;
colours once hidden from my view.

I think of him as the swallows
dip in and out of the surface;
creating ripples 
like stars being shuffled/ renamed/ reborn.

He has dived into the night's harbour
and built me a new constellation
in the sky.