White Song


With most of the modern world owning mobile phones nowadays, we are more reachable. In a dream I had, I couldn’t reach anyone, nor hear anyone on the end of the line. After all, there isn’t any proven means of contacting the dead just as yet.


When the petals droop

Decayed and creased,

I empty the vase

And make voices

In the lines

Brown blemished notes,

All husk,

No song

Folded over my thumb;

The crackling

Of past conversations

Picked and strung

The green stems,



Of a phone handheld

Trailing underground

Signal small space,

And a dial tone from beyond –

You speak

Answering machine

In the blips and beeps

I leave a message,


To retrieve

From the deep



The heat and fossilisation of cultures, compressed. We all have roots, and hold what we dig up as artefacts of the past. Sometimes we know more about the people who ‘find’ us, than they know about us. After all, I was born five years later.


Thrown in, fire enhanced,

Scented and melting at two hundred degrees,

Trickling amongst the roots and

Sinuous on the burning branches of trees,

You tell your tales and pan for the past,

Just as you gleaned the amber

From the beach,

Adornment for clothes a far off concept,

The flames instead being gilded

With an orange glow

Whilst a tale as old as the forest is being told.

Those were your people,

And they christened you after the sea,

Picked out new born, from waters unnamed,

You lay in your mother’s arms,

Young, wrinkled, wild: untamed

As you cried for the tide you were taken from,

Not knowing another world was under your ocean.

I was under that world, compressed and

Consuming in the loam,

Until five years later I was unearthed

And carried home,

By hands that butterflied

Reluctance to kindle the sparks

Of the fire burning low along the shore.

Mined and yours, that tradition is no more,

Set me in a ring, clasp me on a chain,

But as always, always refrain

From casting me in flames;

Let me shine in the sunlight

And feel the clear air,

As below my lady I revolve,

A satellite to be forever there.

The Cherry Blossom

There is a paradox between life and death. An inconsistency between fragility and the eternal. They fit, overlap in some places, and leave holes in other parts.


Where the wild lilies grow,

And the cherry trees cast off their satin shells,

I lie, face skyward bound,

Body echoed against the ground,

Limbs tightly held

And eyes wide, watering in the wind

Which should be warm

Yet renders heat blind,

A flame blown out but smoke still on the rise,

Signals on the hill

And in the glen

Footsteps tracking a line to your earthen den,

Boundaried and blocked

Six feet deep

I hope you have enough peace to sleep.