Where The Yew Trees Grow.

The longbow, the instruction in and of, was once integral to (I've read in books) a young man's education. Knights, old by half my age, with knotted fingers, eyes faded, would lead the jacks to the quiet wood, the wild boar acre, where the yew trees grow, where centurions and vikings before drew blood, marking … Continue reading Where The Yew Trees Grow. →

Reflections In Chrome.

Settled in water, we shape, and beneath candlelit sheet of perfume, we steam hips, ribs, spine and shins with no space between. I write you as reflections in chrome. * Of the Ouse, the Tyne, the Wear, we weave slow-flowing poems of their cool streams - We threshold their bridges, seek margins unseen: I write … Continue reading Reflections In Chrome. →