January 16th 2009 (Hook Farm, Uplyme) 8am. There is a doe outside the window. She is nuzzling the wet grass. She glances up at me after a while, stares, chewing, then continues foraging. Later, I scoop and crumble the insides of yesterday's french stick and I scatter the bread on the grass for the small … Continue reading Notes From a Fragile Island.
they are selling salt and gold. do we care, my darling? mined from the mountain of the soul, beneath the fingernails of children. beneath the gaze of waged men, beneath the hourglass of women, the stalls are laid with mason jars and scales and ingots in glass cabinets. hark! the voices of the barkers trading … Continue reading Salt & Gold
november, this window grows crowded with an apple, halved avocado, tangerine, sprig of mint. a ginger root man, a cork, a silver dollar and a hard rubber egg (where did that come from?). an old yellow zippo, a ufo book, a penny pipe from the thames. a bracelet and a figure in need of some … Continue reading Roud’s ‘English Year’.
For his next trick he needed a rabbit. I have a hat. As you see, quite empty. No sudden movements, please. She is nervous. Please dim the lights. He petted down the audience with a finger and what was to become (in later years, or definitely next time around) his catchphrase, Well, well, well. Who … Continue reading As You See, Quite Empty.
The smeared sights, the bright lights – Felling, Hebburn, Pelaw - rushed the windscreen and nearly disappeared into the rear view. Dave passed the patchwork allotment in Jarrow. Sad flags, a surprising number – a Jack, a George, a rainbow, an A in a circle – hung there over wet sheds and plots from plum … Continue reading Looker.
Poetry is to be dropped at school as a GCSE option... but education experts warned that they wouldn't be able to stop teenagers writing at home at night.
