I’m based in Oxford and have been a guitarist for about 15 years, and a poetry writer for the last 2 to 3. I have a low-key blog of some of my poems, and have discovered that I gravitate toward themes of the symbolism of the seasons, grandeur of nature, longings for that which is bigger …
I am a writer, copy-editor, and filmmaker based in Oxfordshire, focusing primarily on environmental issues and human rights restrictions. I am currently working with a faith-based charity serving persecuted Christians, a foreign policy think tank, a not-for-profit social impact website & magazine, an independent film journal, and a faith-based charity evaluation group. Over the past 5 years, I have …
I live in Southampton UK with my wife Colette and two young daughters. By day I’m an academic in the natural sciences turned UK and European Patent Attorney, but by night I indulge my first love of wordcraft. I am a team member and contributing author to The Cultivating Project, a creative community who publish …
[This poem was first published in the Autumn 2021 issue of The Cultivating Project] It was our birthright, Breathed upon a garden’s dappled glade, Sung forth from soil, soft-cupped in ageless hands, To be tended, and in our turn to tend, By day’s great light to till the budding land, Then walk as friends by …
Under the paschal skies the weight of dead hopes lay heavy. Only the wan light of rumour flickered fitfully. But who heeds women’s tales fashioned of dreams, losing the fact in the dream? The stranger was an irritant, dropping questions upon their mournful musings till he spoke again. Old embalmed sayings broke from their cerements. …
The night is white with snow-mist A cold monochrome stillness. The porch-light picks out berries on the holly, Evergreen resistant to winter’s thrall. Inside a cheerful fire burns in the grate But upstairs the air is icy. He came, setting a few hearts aglow Despite the inn’s rejection And the austerity of the stable, …
I have been out in the wind and the rain And in the night-wild woods. I only know that He comes and goes again, Scatters and leaves His goods. I have lain out where the sward is steeped in sun On a still-murmurous day. He works in the fields, but when His hour is done …
Was I too happy that year, waking to God in spring greenness, while in camps across the channel Green was the backdrop to foulness, carrying no comfort.? Was I too happy, writing Calvary poems in college quiet born of doctrine not experience, while in war-torn lands the cross was written in blood and tears? Now …
A quiet field beyond the church yard sheep browse, there are pools in the grass. Only a seasonal change since I last walked this narrow path, the old dog placidly sauntering. Now the young dog strains at the leash, disproportion is greater. The old dog matched my ageing steps The young one outpaces me. The …
Piece by piece the furniture is carried out chairs, tables, bookcases, beds. The mens’ feet on the bare boards beat a constant accompaniment. Last to go is the piano. Is it loth to leave where so much music has been made? (Shades of Bach, of MacDowell on winter evenings, of carol practice – of HMS …
