The edge of the world

Would you leave your good twin behind?
Would you leave him in the virgin snow?
Would you leave him alone in the sunlight?
at the edge of the world

Would you forget he ever existed?
Would you leave him to melt in the sun?
Would you let his kind soul slip way?
At the edge of the world

Would you fill your heart with anger?
Would you fill your mind with hate?
Would you follow the road to ruin?
At the edge of the world

Would you live in rage at unfairness?
Would you become as dark as night?
Would you scream at the wars all around you?
At the edge of the world

How would you react? do you even know what to do?

Viking burial

Like a dead Viking warrior set adrift in a Viking long boat. Sailing out on the North Sea should it now be set alight? Should all things that the Viking warrior knew and all the things that he did be burnt to ash and sink to the bottom of the sea?

Like a boat that escapes its moorings drifting away from the dock that is staked firmly into the sea bed. Drifting away, singing to itself in the sea breeze. Detached and free and vulnerable, without ties to the land. Should all that it has learnt, should all that it has done be consigned to the ocean wasteland never to be seen again?


I have forgotten the reason i wrote this. It is a question, but what about

God’s child


She is dying of TB
In a Norwegian winter
Sophia – Munch’s sister
The priest
Edvard crying behind the curtain
She is told by her father

  1. The Lord is going to take you now
  2. Would you like to live
  3. 3. You will be in heaven


A favourite sister
A favourite sister
Agonisingly distressing

Burning in her bed

I know it is terrible for you
To have to go so soon

How young you are

I would rather have to go in your stead
I have nothing to lose and I know it
I know how little life means
How little it means to live

Looking towards the light
Cast by the lamp

It might mean little to live
But she regretted the loss even so

You will meet mama
I will come soon
I am old
We will be gathered

Things got on top of me
Rocking and rolling me
Time passed by

I’m so sorry
I couldn’t come
I should’ve run

I spun in a spiral
Down into a hole
I couldn’t move
To save my soul

I had to carry
A stack of plates
I couldn’t move
It was just my fate

I looked at the time
As the little hands played
Doing the hand jive
Dancing on my grave

Somewhere inside
Life stood still
While time moved on
Over the hill

The priest came
And went into the sick room
The door was closed behind him
There came only whispers

She is God’s child
God’s child
So pure and innocent

She will go straight to heaven

I went over to the window
And put my head behind the curtain
I couldn’t stop the tears
I knew for certain

In the evening
She lay urning up on her bed
Her eyes were bloodshot and restless
Roaming the room

Dear sweet Edward
Take it from me
It hurts so much
Won’t you please
She said pleadingly

See that head there
It is death

Sophie, my beloved
I must tell you
God will take you soon
In a while
Then she pulled herself together
Then she gave a weak smile

Would you like to live
Yes, I would like to
Why little Sophie why
It’s nice here
Isn’t it nice here
Sing a psalm little Sophie
And don’t cry

In the last half hour
She felt brighter
The spasms she was having
Were lighter

She tied to raise herself up
She wanted to sit in the chair

How strange she felt
The room was different
It was as if she was seeing it through a veil
Her body felt so leaden
So weighed down so tired

Sophie, there’s something I must tell you
The Lord will soon be taking you
Unto himself

Then she leant forwards
And she died

here is the rose bush

here is the rose bush
and all the wild flowers around it
have been pulled out

here is the electric pylon
and all the little flowers around it
have died ff

and here is the lawn
and all the yellow buttercups
have been poisoned

and here is nelsons column
and all the pigeons in the square
have been murdered

and here is the conifer tree
and all the young oaks sprouts
have died in the darkness

and here is the modern world
and all the peoples of the earth
fade like snowflakes into the ground

This is like a version o

Next door

Next door live the Hominids
And their extended family
In the back garden they have built a henge
In the front garden there is a burial mound

They have no faces
Their heads are egg shaped
Their long hairy arms are to be seen
Hanging out of windows

Newly discovered
They originate from a small island in the Orkneys
Were they evacuated?
Was there a bomb test?

They do not speak English
They send clay tablets by post
To far distant civilisations

They welcome alien spacecraft
And stare at the technology
They leave their stone axes by the front door
Their bath is full of flint heads

Every solstice there is a sacrifice
Every new moon
the sound of chanting comes from their flat

in the early morning the head of the family
heads off to work with his antler pick
their relatives arrived
pulling a large block of blue stone as a gift

they have a tame wolf and a tame wild cat that fight
yet life carries on as normal on the estate


How I spent my day

At home
I love you
I hour later at the bus stop
I love you
I hour later at another bus stop
I love you
I hour later on the bus
I love you
I hour later at Trafalgar square
I love you
In a cafe
I love you
In oxford street station
I love you
I hour later on the central line
I love you
I hour later at home
I love you

This is all about the working day

Financial factory

Financial factory
Whirls around
The clink of money
Is it’s sound

Make money
Make noise
Machines make profit
Money l
Loving boys

Heaps of silver
Heaps of gold
Make the bankers
Hearts go cold

Financial factory
A money-go-round
Someday soon
Should shut it down

No more fiddling
No more games
Throw the stock market
Into the flames

This is the common love hate relationship we have with money. if we love

The trap door

In my prayer I saw a heavy wooden trap door locked shut beneath it I imagined death alive waiting not to be.
Death is all death all in death are one in this eth
Death wears many clothes but has only one identity
All who die go to death and death is one thing and death is there beneath the old wooden trap door in an abyss
Death is no one yet death is everyone who is dead
Into death go millions
Out of death can come millions
But of death is only one this one thing
And to that old heavy wooden trap door in the earth many hands come and open and release them from there


I think this was from an actual dream. but it was almost ten years ago th

Ancient Mercia

Ancient Mercia
Wolf wooded throne

Ancient Mercia
Stone and bone and fire

Ancient Mercia
Great middle land of tribes

Ancient Mercia
This true name
This true identity

Ancient Mercia
The sun and moon thru your limbs and branches
A smiling free time

Ancient Mercia
In the wood dust are owl and deer
In the wood powder are squirrel and rabbit

Ancient Mercia
So long ago country
Time of growth and imaginings

Ancient Mercia was the name given to the midlands of England a long ti