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.
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.
Ether is the new lozenge; you'll find it labelled under lounge. In the library they are reading Boudicca's Cumbrian Crown. Her heart is on her sleeve semi-colon her art is in her mouth full stop * The headlines made the locals cry; "I couldn't breathe for ether." "It breaks your effing heart, it does. What … Continue reading Ether is the new lozenge
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