A poem of transformation —

A poem on the alchemy of imagination I’ve been reading about how the alchemical process was originally a metaphor for personal transformation, in which our own faults or base metals are transformed into realised potential, represented by gold. This poem is intended to bring you along for the ride! Picture…

For my father — My father recently passed away peacefully, which was of course incredibly hard. He was my mentor and besides all my happy memories, such as going to the Lake District in North West England many times, without him I wouldn’t have the passion for poetry that I do. Spending those last…

A poem to the flowers and my love — I was walking along the footpath that leads to the train station after work and enjoying the crocuses and daffodils beneath the hedges. I wondered how I could describe them to my fiancée and the following poem came into my head. It feels like a voice from an older time…

A Poem on Christmas Origins Roll back past ubiquitous pop songs adverts in September lists of cards to write ice-rinks spiced wine honey-roasted cashew nuts window displays on Oxford Street Santa swigging Coca-Cola — Speed up past televangelists, pro-life campaigners, flat-worlders, past missionaries and colonists exchanging people’s countries for The Book, past people who translated The Book into…

A Poem About When I Thought About Time So Much I Missed My Train — Not all minutes and hours are equal. The hour’s grind in the office, café, gym, is paid or charged at a specific rate. Time in the garden on a summer’s evening walking on a fellside, laughing with friends or hanging out with the love of your life has a value hard to measure. Hours dossing round…

A Poem About When I Got That Strange Feeling

A poem about a moment I was walking home from a restaurant in Bozen (Bolzano in Italian) and witnessed something wonderful — You can listen to the poem here. There we were heading back after pizza Enjoying the cobbles and courtyards of Bozen The dolomites crouching, black marble, behind it On our way to the B and B for the night On to the next town of our tour in the morning When the night mountain air…

A poetic rendering of the tale of how ‘The Chief to the Bards’ from old Welsh myth acquired his ‘shining brow.’ — When Gwion Bach was asked, or rather made, to carry firewood for a year to feed the cauldron of Ceridwen the Witch, he had no idea what was about to happen. She was making a brew to make her idiot son, Morfran, become wise, but little Gwion accidentally got in…