Forgive The Boy

Bless the boy who flees the house
with a leash and nameless collar
to catch the raining cats and dogs.

Excuse the boy who retaliates
with a thump when told to break a leg
as he worries and sweats in the wing.

Pardon the boy who shouts to horses,
spooking them back to stables,
because he heard it came from their mouth.

Forgive the boy who wondered the magic
when the girl down the road disappeared
on her way home and was never seen again.



Need advice on how
to handle those days?

Take note from
the great city umbrellas.

Despite being angrily
stuffed into bins, the torn

canopy webs, split stretchers,
and rusted ribs elbowed out,

each is an act of mighty
stubborn refuse:

they deny the fit, and resist
an end not made for it.

Do You Remember Our Fires?

Do you remember our fires?

The days we set fields alight,
fed embers to forests,
sent cities to smoulder,

how sweet kindling whispered
to each hungry blaze,
bloomed to flames of fervour?

Do you remember those days?

It’s February. Powdered snow
settles to thickness overnight,
sedates country, suburbs, all alike.

Time is young, ruthless,
and before you know it,
you’re snowed in,

digging for the ashes beneath.
Your smarting hands against the cold.


It’s as if it’s their first time.
Coupled in the house lights,
centre stage, stood in view of all,

dwarfed by the sweating Belgian beer
advertised behind, the rise of music
drowning their hushed voices further.

Which row is theirs? Which seats?
They look to the screen, to their tickets,
but can’t place themselves amongst

the young, their phone-lit faces,
who cross their feet on the seats
in front and give them no notice.

There’s tender nervousness, caution.
She takes a step to the row before
and he stops her, confused, unsure.

Suddenly they’re the feature: a lost pair,
timidly holding their salted popcorn,
their melting milk chocolates,

who’ve nowhere to sit,
who can’t find their place
amid the sea of certainty

of kids, of teens, of adolescence.
They know all of life –
– and at the same time, none of it.


These woods are quiet now,
holding only memories of youth.
We searched for Liberty Bells,
tested our knuckles on redwoods,
tried our stomachs with granddad’s
Irish whiskey until we were singing,
smitten and sick, when days were golden
and nights were long and longed for.

“Nothing lasts forever,”
said once some drunk old chap,
strong and august, and we listened.
Who could blame us? What values
aren’t drawn from the slumped
broken man outside the pub
who sits in the gutter and tells you
how things never get better?

Quiet Earth

What does the morning hold, the evening,
in some distant, foreign place?
One nameless acre no one calls home.

It could be country, coast, undisturbed
rolling hills, fields of lavender, bluebells,
and marbled streams warbling between

where woodland trees sing and sough,
and anxious starlings rush above
the sulphur rocks and stink of fox.

These aren’t of my home nor of my life,
but I’ll wring the landscape for all its worth,
for sand and seed and grain,

I’ll let that part of quiet earth know
I am back. I want to call it home.