• Conservation Options


    about all the
    in our
    me of all that
    is still here,
    still to pray for,
    to be reprieved.


    Secret Gardens


    Where do we go in the dead of night;
    what lights shine in secret gardens?


    Waking leaves green and soften
    the place where rain has fallen
    and candles are not lit and
    interloping paths are strange
    un-wild ways,


    and the door is ever open to
    the darkness, the deepness
    of un-tamed dream-space.



    Who are they now?


    Who are they now, the Elders?

    Where have they gone, the wise ones,
    who held all that was sacred?


    How long is it since the pure-in-heart
    and ancient-in-wisdom, looked upon
    the path ahead and turned aside?


    And will they return?


    It is hard to live in the world of man, and yet


    the oaks still stand

    gnarled and twisted and bark-stripped
    and deep-grooved, and branch-shed,
    and leaning over the road,

    and wounded and



    Where are they now, the elders?


    They wait in quiet lanes
    and by the woodland paths.


    And you will know them
    by the silence of their beckoning.






    What is wild, or life?
    Not only that which breathes, but
    stones and fallen leaves.





    Is there anything more wild and free
    than sunlight?


    And are we ever more arrested
    by the natural world, than when
    it makes us stop…


    …and see.





    It lay there, still bloodied and gnawed. I foot-dragged shingle over it and tamped it down to feed the earth-living things

    and hoped it would rot and disappear,
    but truth is it was too near the door, and I would tread upon its grave too often to rest easy.


    I let it resurface and was surprised
    at the humanity in its paws, how hand-like
    they are holding that single pebble
    like a holy book, and the flowing nature
    of its gown, a rain-drenched shroud.


    So what do I do now?



    Don’t drape me with plastic, or flowers,
    nor tie me with ribbons and string,
    clothe me only warm sphagnum blankets,
    and birds stopping by to sing.


    For pearls give me mushrooms that gleam,
    for diamonds string dewdrops on webs,
    cloak me in gossamer mists of a morning
    and crown me with a ruby at sunset.


    What would you do?


    If you were tiny, and your rapid
    heart, outraced the minute
    a thousand to one;


    if you’d become a poster-boy
    for some strange cult, purely
    because of the colour
    of your skin;


    If you woke too early and slept
    too late, and were harried to
    live the frozen months on
    scraps, and ice;


    would you still climb the highest
    tree, and sing?



    We are all sometimes Gull


    We do what we need to do,
    not what others want of us,
    yet while we’re slamming down
    head-first after soggy bread
    on Christmas day, we don’t
    know just how beautiful
    are the wings that
    hold us.


    Last Light


    Longest night steals in;
    trees spread their black
    fingers into the sky and
    across the waters.


    Darkness does not fall,
    but waits for daylight shades
    to fade to grey and outlasts
    that flash of white,


    while blackness oozes
    from the banks.







    I do not wish my old life back
    nor the people from it

    but how I miss…

    the way they made me feel
    and how I feel the sadness
    of this new world.




    A Wish Granted


    I woke to a world of fairy-dust
    and glitter,


    not true snow-fall, more

    a sugar-coating,


    an end-of-Autumn shimmer,

    winter’s coming.







    Wet wood (close-up)


    Translucence rises from logs and leaves,
    pearlescent, alabaster, sepia memories of
    the aging and the birthing, the quietude
    of autumn: woodland decaying into life.



    Autumn Falling



    If I should fall in Autumn, then let me lie
    where golden leaves will be my coverlet.


    Let the gentle mists sing me to my rest,
    and early evenings welcome me to home.


    Instead of swan-song let me hear the honk
    of returning geese and believe that I will fly

    in a shimmer of golden wings rising
    into the morning Autumn sky.






    We look to the stars for the alien life,
    which already lives beneath our feet, and writes to us, in hieroglyphs
    trying to find a way to speak,


    while we look far beyond the place
    we live and do not yet understand.


    The scarab first caught my eye, emerging crablike on the Cromer sands,


    then the overflowing horn of plenty,
    its silver shimmering creator coiled


    and dived leaving all the cryptic faces,
    goggled, helmeted, spaced out and


    planned for me to wonder at, puzzle out to find the four-ribbed tube-breathing prototype of man.







    We think of famous places,
    natural untainted spaces, or those
    magnificent castles and country piles
    of bricks, and gentry lives, but whose
    landmarks are those?


    What relevance to your growth
    and being who you are becoming
    registers in that earth, or those walls?


    Make your own marks on the land!
    Create your true points of reference, and
    raise the smallest statues to your beliefs.

    Or plant – or maybe save – a tree, to
    shine golden in the evening against
    life’s stormy sky.




    Autumn Encroaching



    As we edge towards the darkening,
    lanes are lit by summer’s lingering.
    Fairy-sconces of toadflax torches,
    shine by the hacked-back hedges,
    while beyond the rusting gates,
    and long-forgotten fences,
    bright green fields stretch
    out their aching sinews,
    refreshed by autumn
    drenches, and then
    relax their greens
    into fading sage
    and brownish
    beige, as all

    If I could only photograph one thing


    I would sit and weep for being
    made to choose, between the paling
    of the sky at dawn, and the fading
    of the earth at dusk.


    And in my tears I would find the
    answer, if I could only photograph
    one thing, I would choose


    I would picture the distorted world,
    rounded in a raindrop, gilded
    in an office window, impressionist
    river paintings.


    Low tide would gift me light,
    clouds and cliffs in the shimmers
    of the still-wet sands, and gulls


    In puddles I would find the autumn
    leaves, the wellington joy of children,
    and in the dark of the mountain tarn,
    I’d find the echo of miracles.

    Tread not so softly

    (After W.B. Yeats)


    Though my dreams are scattered
    at your feet, run wildly on.


    My hopes are as firm as the
    dunes where the marram grows,
    as the quicksilver of the evening seas;

    they have all the fragility
    of the moon at dawn,


    but fear not your treading
    across my heart, run free,
    run wildly on.

    The Seeds of Memory

    Soft ice cream and the pointless drive
    along country lanes, which you haven’t yet
    figured out is one of my favourite things, idle
    rides on roads to somewhere, or nowhere,
    just looking at the places in between.


    The gentleness of cygnets on the river,
    in their end-of-summer grey, thunder clouds
    fallen down without rainfall, soft feathers
    on the water, and beyond the tree-lined
    bend: the skipping light.


    Reed-streams below the surface, and
    why I wouldn’t swim where such fickle
    greenery lies waiting to entangle the
    unwary; ramshackle boats and one
    sleek beauty of polished wood that I
    held back from stroking.


    Old flint walls and hidden park-land
    beyond its old-money rusting fences,
    tree-tunnels, and macho fools who jump
    from the stone bridge into the weir,
    impressing no-one.





    Be still blood red heart
    of paper whispers, there is
    bee-work to be done.



    Weed Bug



    Lonely seven-spot,
    forages in the shade of
    a ragwort sunburst




    The Gatekeeper



    Hearts of burnished bronze,
    and silken fawn, held in the
    palm of lime green leaves.



    Water on white campion

    Flaming June is doused,
    and sopping, sobbing still.

    Night-scents are wasted
    when moths cannot fly,
    wet-winged, grounded,
    hungry for the sweetness
    hidden in that pale blind



    Marsh Moment


    Heat on the river path has me slowing
    to the pace of swans, languid and diving
    beneath the water, seeking shade; has
    me retreating to the few trees
    and the breath of leaves.


    A swing has been strung on a branch,
    seemingly grown specifically horizontal
    for that purpose


    and looking as though it has been
    there forever,


    waiting for childhood to return.


    I regret just walking on.



    Orange Tip Settling


    Impatience flutters,
    alights on the perfect bloom,
    folds wings, disappears.