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digitalis obscura

the sun sets.
digitalis obscura into forget-me-not blue.
whilst all above you,
the stars are five-petalled, pale yellow
and scattered a little like wildflowers about an eternal woodland meadow.

it should be enough,
that the heart blossoms, breaks, and blossoms, in love.



shivering sunrise, holy moment
wandering venus, waning crescent.

my train window splits the sun into three
and there’s silver mist rising from sparkling streams
and the fields are frosted, and glittering,
dawn sky, parts to pearlescence, light’s pouring in.
this is omniscient beauty, and with observance, you’ll see
how it moves through the morning as it moves through me.

(i think i’m in love with the south coast sea)



coral and pearl / 2019

trembling girl, cut from coral and pearl
delicate, like harp strings, and hummingbirds
or the first winter snowdrops, pale petals unfurled
how determined they rise from the frost-covered earth.

you have made yourself home, out of canyon and cove
you have crowned yourself queen, in california gold
time tosses, like blossoms, us each to its fragrant wind
but you’re wrapped in a light that can never be dimmed.






new years eve, torquay.

there are three flowers on the table. two white freesias, silk-petalled and splashed gold, scented citrus-sweet, and there’s a single nerine, too, or guernsey lily, the place they first grew originally. named after the nereids, the sea nymphs that would protect sailors and their ships, in the language of flowers, nerines represent vulnerability. freesias, trust. each bloom or bud sits in its very own ginger beer bottle, labels half peeled off. fever tree, iron & wine’s fever dream spinning about in my head.

an almost astonishingly pretty girl/goddess, in a pale grey lace dress, is sitting by the fireplace, which crackles and sparks and sparkles, every now and again. i’m only half listening to my family, they’re inventing outlandish stories about the characters that keep their boats next to ours in the bay harbour. there’s ralph with his wolfhound, and there’s captain bubble wrap, too, who is very kind and has offered to teach me how to sail. i can’t concentrate on anything they’re saying, and the radiator behind the sofa is far too warm, uncomfortably so. i excuse myself. i bypass the bearded boy behind the bar with the green eyes, who waves, smiles, and i walk outside, into the night. we’re at the bottom of a little valley, the hills are all deep black, looming above me,  they’re actually somewhat spooky. until the fireworks start.

said the starlight, to the sea

so said the starlight, to the sea,
do you know where all rivers lead?
what could you hope to know of me?
i’m far above you. out of reach.
i sing the music of the spheres,
and every dawn, i disappear,
oh, cosmic lyre, into the fire,
that all things come from. ever higher.

responds the sea, pellucidly,
don’t you know? you are part of me.
we rise and fall symmetrically,
there’s so much, still, you’ve yet to see.
your glow, reflected on my surface?
the exhaled breath of universes.
and that’s your path, your shining purpose,
celestial child, to learn what love is.




(i will never ever finish my album if i keep insisting on adding new songs. to the sea!)


azurite night, speckled with starlight,
and i’ve a bowl of banded pebbles from beesands beach.
and the new year is now, almost, within reach.
soon, there’ll be snowdrops, wild strawberries, spring,
which is sort of the same as everything!

(dawn after dark)

conformal (a circle of circles)

there is a whole world built in mystery,
from sulfur, salt, and mercury
that hides between the ones you see
in cyclical exultancy.
perihelion, so perfectly,
for a moment, it comes close to me,
so said the starlight, to the sea,
do you know where all rivers lead?



christmas evening, everyone is sleeping, and i just found a rocky mountain columbine, petals torn and pressed between the pages of an old, abandoned, sketchbook.  i’m reading an article about how the correct topology of cyclic cosmology might in fact be circle in circle, and i think i like the idea. that way, everything begins at the end, and there’s not a beginning at all. i’ve drunk far too much champagne.


december diaries


december 24th. it’s christmas eve, finally. there are silver star sequins, chestnut peelings, all over the floor, the turkey is swimming in a bath with star anise, the children are adorable, extremely excited, but sleeping now, and i’m trying to decide whether the word synodic is acceptable for use in a song. probably not, but i’ve tuned the top two strings of my guitar down a touch, and it’s as if an entirely new world has opened up, E A D G A D. these december days, so far, have been soft-focused in fog, muted by mist, there’s been frustratingly little frost this month, and no snow, but most mornings are silver soft, raindrops, pared back beauty, slow and sleepy. and, i’ve been feeling as if i’ve love spilling out of me, more even than usual, more than i know what to do with, and that touches everything, life-affirming, but in a delicate way. i think i’m too much of a romantic. i’ll have to work on this. 


i hardly sleep, and when i do, more often than not, i find my way, eventually, to a silver tossing sea. sometimes, it swallows me. once in a while, though, i go sailing, in a blue boat, always alone, paint peeling, and there are barnacles and fluorescent orange crates filled with buoys. do dreams actually have any meaning to them at all? i write them down, it’s an almost indecipherable diary, my not-quite-awake handwriting is horrid. 


gone 2am, and i’m reading about warengham distellerie, and elixir d’armorique, génépi, st. john’s-wort, coriander, orange peel, it’s a century old digestif, an entirely unprofitable traditional drink, but i feel as if the french hold onto these things quite determinedly, even sometimes stubbornly. and, most wisely, if you ask me, they are worth honoring, protecting, celebrating. between the ages of 19 and 26, i didn’t drink alcohol at all, well, hardly, one glass of champagne at an afternoon tea in london, and another sat in the back garden at 28 salisbury, i was wearing a white dress, apprehensive, the bubbles went straight to my head. i didn’t like the lack of control. but, then, i went to california. 

——–, with a norwegian/nashville accent, suggests i should move to tennessee, he’s a music studio sat in the shadows of the great smoky mountains, and he grows tomatoes, even purple ones. i won’t go.


if ever i’m to buy a house, i should like it to be in brittany, or devon, there’s a ferry, we’ll see. a chaumière, or granite penty, south-facing (to offer protection against those strong atlantic winds), and with a slate, or thatched, roof, i don’t mind. by then i’ll have grown up, and will have been taught to properly appreciate red wine, and then there’s the cider, too. i hope the floorboards will creak, i hope there’s a little and ancient church nearby, i hope there’s ivy creeping up the walls, and i’ll buy a bicycle, and eat baguettes every day. also, i’ll own a hammered dulcimer, and it will sit next to my harp. 

these are the memories that will sink into light

this is where the hope is,
winter solstice, cold moon, ursids.
reflect, take a deep breath, and then look ahead,
these are the memories that will sink into light.
and i’m breathing cloud into the evening,
as around me, the finest rain is falling,
radiant and reflected flecks of gold and amber,
barely even there,
suspended in mid-air.

(i’ve three candles burning, beeswax, i’m learning, and chamomile crushed in a cup).

1. may every day touch upon that trembling genesis of inspiration.
2. may the star-shaped sequins that have spilt themselves all over the floor form a trail.
3. may the pine needles please not drop all at once.
4. may the coming months bring me stormy days in misty and mossy places, watercolour paints, and sunday tea breaks, with cake, of course.
5. may those who have come before, and those who will come after, move tangibly, watch over, guide, me.
6. and, may the chestnuts i’ve been peeling, boiling, soaking in vanilla syrup, actually be worth eating.

desert diaries

there is a flowing light, a numinous beauty,
that brightens and stills everything around me
its gaze holds for a moment, then opens up something,
incommunicable, eternal, anchoring

in this city, everything is exaggerated. it’s monsoon season, dizzying humidity (even silk and air conditioning isn’t enough for me), and every other evening, the 17-years-asleep cicadas singing in the rosewood shade tree, the one that so very kindly casts its shadow on my burning concrete balcony, are silenced only by the rumbling sounds of another approaching thunderstorm. we are forewarned.

could i slip away, quiet? keep myself as a secret? a long drive in the desert …

it will all arrive, soon enough. sweeping 60mph winds, southerly, gathering waves or a wall of dust, to rain down upon, or near-suffocate, all of us. lightning will split the sky in a dozen places all at once, and i’ll draw back the blinds, fill the kettle, light a candle, carefully position the most comfortable cushion on the cold and cracking white-tiled floor, and watch. even the neon will dim, the palms will bend, maybe even break, and the freeway will slow to a crawl.

strontium and spark

the last of a lilac twilight.
countryside rushing by the window of my high-speed train,
and i’m wondering, again,
maybe this is how life is:
the most beautiful things, we just get a glimpse of.
still, to even be here at all is to
break the dark
with showers of strontium and spark,
is to set the sky alight so that we might
pierce even the most frozen november night.