My mother never loved my father,
A man who even at the best of times was a drunk and a gambler.
Whether she loved me was a question I thought of habitually
And to some great extent,
But with little in the way of conclusion.
Read more "The house on the hill – One further poem"
Twisting, turning, house is burning,
Wiggle wiggle waggle waggle woo.
Read more "Wiggle wiggle – a poem"
People with lives, lives like shooting stars, gleaming and bright and rare, rare as grass that’s green, water that’s blue.
Read more "This Town Has People In It"
The bright eye of the sun peeks through twisted branches, setting but not quite hidden behind the hills. Rusted traintracks curve into the distance, straightening out through a steep valley below.
Read more "Places I’ve been (in Scotland)"
Loony Lovegood looking girl,
Leaning right to see,
With swoosh of magic silver hair,
The curly mess of me.
Read more "Loony lovegood looking girl – a love poem"
Oh my god the colours…
The turquoise water, the blinding green grass, it’s almost unsettling how pretty it is. Almost artificial
Read more "The train into Switzerland"
The Faylin Valley began with stroke of violet, the perfect sky. It might not be the truth, for the truth was that the sky was dull and blue, but that didn’t concern Tully so much. If kings and queens could be rid of every imperfection, the sky would receive such treatment too. Everything was beautiful once Tully had put down his brush, and the valley would be no exception.
Read more "The painter’s daughter"