“a click of spine drawn along
and in
and through to distance
this view of words and letters and notes and song
weighting to be heard, begging to open
the furl of crisp-edged papers, stavingly bound
in creaking woodchip…
some might say, where they belong…”
The winter snap we feel of late had not transcended time just yet. Mornings of bright sun slewing […]
a rush of rash hours spent encased between layers of soundproofing between vast hills swaddled in low cloud and green grass, drowning in a wave of sound…
standing beachside in the early hours of the morning as tides lapped and swayed, long shadows echoing in the diffuse glow…
The lie of this land lopes unfamiliarly to me. pentagons and polygons leap uncharitably into tree canopies quenched with a darker rain. The sort which spits and circles its words into the air, leaving its footprint drawn dabblingly, shadow seeping inward on less saturated ground. It infiltrates quietly, whilst the blanket of night […]
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