Lament of the Europeans

We are riven, torn in two,

half of us brilliant yellow, the other stubborn blue.

The flags will tear, ribbons of the economy

The gold has dropped, blinded by our autonomy.

And across field and fen and valley deep,

The consequences of this our children must reap.


Tomato Pasta with Chives from the Garden

I can hear my mothers voice from the kitchen.

She is speaking softly, gently, like a low hum,

naming herbs to my sister;

Chives, basil, mint, oregano, sage.

The stew pot simmers, gently bubbling over the quiet roar of the gas hob.

“Add some olive oil.”

“Then what?”


Generations of knowledge related in a low murmur, enunciated with warm laughs and the guiding of brown, calloused hands.

The watery crunch of salad being sliced and the porcelain rasp of plates being taken down from the Welsh Dresser can be heard.

Tomato turns the air hazy with scent and it clings to their hair,

As they dish up and my sister gives a proud smile.

It tasted fucking awful.


My Lady

Claws on my insides

I want to rip my skin off

Just be a soul on the wind

light and energy.

Free, free to follow the lines of my life.

Numbers and roads and Co2

I just want forests, fields, fern and fen,

and be at peace with My Lady, in her lilac glen.


My Soul, it loves with iridescent beauty,

The colour of sunlight through fairy wings.

It is tethered to my rib cage, silver knots against white bone.

And it honours the place in you where love is made and has been lost.