Three Red Deer dart like sun rays in the glade, like fireflies sparking tinder. Their eyes kindle bright and clear as flint on steel. They carry the silence of centuries in every glance. Bow taut limbs flex and draw back sharp as a blade of light. The aim of their stride … More Collecting Kindling
I have always been interested in exploring how external circumstances inform and influence individual identity. Who would we be and how would we behave if our circumstances were different? What impact does our particular culture, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, childhood experiences and social class have on us? Experiments such as the Stanford Prison Experiment … More Midnight
Perhaps the truth of you is deeper even than rage or tears or fear or any one instinct. Perhaps, it’s dignity and duty. Things abandoned as unauthentic or proud but the parts that made a place for light to shine when all went dark.
The days that spend you subdue you like evening light, worn out hours surrendered, poured, yearnings yielded, visions bare as barren winter branches where solemn birds alight to pick clean last colour from brittle bone. Then suddenly, from nowhere and everywhere a flush of sunlight shakes the boughs awake. rifling rays fray … More Dispensation
It’s okay to still believe. It’s okay to cup your hand in that ancient stream. To flex and strive, admit defeat. It’s alright to yield, to beat your wings upon a fleeting sheet of sky. To sail on still the silent seas. Leave fallow fields, to go to seed. To sink roots deep, plunge … More The Enlightenment
Your wings arch and rise. Beneath such tides the world is silenced. Observant, the clouds roll back a parchment scribed with prophesy I can’t translate. Your eye, dart sharp, immaculate, clear as a lake reflecting granite sky. Your dull plumage brims with a universe of stars. From marble plinth, brink you … More Heron
I carry the restless, unfulfilled desire and the overflowing cup in one hand, a child in the other. I carry the abandonment to sleep, the heaving chest, the heavy eyes, the weight of dreams, on my back. Blossoms bloom from sepal shaped shackles that still flowing streams. My leaves fall awake in cold … More A Mother