We stumble along, believing we hold the map Believing we guide our path or someone does somewhere From the darkness to the light and back The bird flies through the drinking hall and is gone Leaving memories, echoes and silence All we are is memories and echoes All we can do is try to fracture the silence.
I’m delighted to tell you that the first ever issue of Sciencefictionery Magazine is published today, and my poem ‘Falling’ is part of this great issue. My poem tells a story about troubles on a voyage to Mars.
Only Exmoor stretches out to embrace the whole sky in its immensity Reflects its moods and colours, its nurture and destruction Only the moor is as fickle as the sky
Today the moor is swallowed as clouds subsume the uplands Yesterday it shed water like the clouds themselves Tomorrow it will shimmer with heat, dry and unforgiving
Trees hide in hollows, afraid to stand in the open Sheep bones litter the spring hillsides Peaty silty bogs nestle with gorse , bracken and heather
Only Exmoor reaches out to bleed the very rain from the sky To lie seeming gentle with its folds and billows, green fields abutting the heather Then to gladly accept the gifts of deadly snow, killing floods, baking heat