She was in her eighties but new to her work. An enthusiastic witch who shuffled about the alleys, helping those in need with a potion here and a spell there. As she learned, she expanded upon her ways to help, one day she learned to fly.
This drew attention from some young magic folks. The young always seem to wield their power to strut, to show off. Possessive of their magic, they wished to quash a dream, so set to bully the new witch. They transformed her home, they removed her door, her belongings imprisoned in brick. As they laughed they blocked her chimney, filling her home with smoke. These inconveniences continued for several months, but the witch continued to learn. The group got bolder as they kept up their attacks with no retaliation. But their laughing heard by the witch as they retreated pushed the witch too far. During her pursuit one fleeing youth lost a page from her pocket, an ancient page bearing ancient writing. The witch tore the page in strips, the youth fell from the sky. One returned to investigate, he met the witch and lost his page. Powerless he fell too, to flee on mortal foot. These kids had found magic in one tome, with no sacrifice of time nor energy, just given, they wasted it without thought. The remaining youths hid in a coffee house, holding their pages dear, thinking of how they will ration their gift more mindfully.


Captain Clucky the wonder chicken
her golden wings flapped all strange
she rescued all the penned in fowl
believing they should be free range
Clucky flew and zinged all about
to the farmer she was malicious
she got a little over confident
to the farmer she was delicious.


Dreaded are the moments
on green pastures sodden
nettles sting the knuckles
knowledge now forgotten
everyone has a reason
yet still they let us down
all patterns are repeating
petals fall to the ground
pleasing to the eye is
looking to the past
everything changes
Sunday goes too fast.


She has a few lights blown on her Christmas tree,
but the ones she has left shine beautifully.





Looking out of the window, the drizzle still comes down. Just one splinter of sun would cheer me, but the slate rolls through unbroken. I haven’t seen my shadow for days, I hope he is OK, possibly he drowned, I should have let him dry on a wall for a time, instead of leaving him on the ground. I miss him.


It is a soggy place to buy a sports car, yet this dank isle sells more than the warmest climes. Such perversion, sat in the traffic in the pouring rain, roof down and smiling broader than the ones in the warm.


Winter trees are showing their claws
no warm leafy curves anymore
gnarled and twisted a menacing sight
please spring come to soften their bite.


Drizzle has no anger like the storm
it stirs no emotion but meh.


The crows can wait it out no longer
so head out into the lashing rain
to see who died last night.


Such celebration from the crows
when morning comes
blessed with sun
they cackle and they caw
no more rain anymore.

Post flu fidgets

Centuries ago, by the light of a fire, in the vibrant wood, no wonder imagination took flight. The flickering flame paints gruesome movement on gnarled oak trunks, while the impish ash dances skyward. Tales are told to hold fond ones near, tales to pin their hearts to home.
If you venture out beyond the ridge, you will meet from where the screech comes, That loathsome beast will snatch your soul and fix it to burning thorns. In a tortured forever you will learn the foul word named regret.


There really is no barrier between here and there. I was surprised the ones of there do not visit more often, and that we are so ignorant we have not discovered the pathways ourselves. Perhaps their delicacy lends them timidity. In all their otherness, their vitreous face, they come to our clod footed place unprotected and frail, a wisp in our glutinous human realm. Whatever they make of us, their stay is brief and often tormented. I now hope we never discover the paths ourselves.


Long silver shadows scamper along the attic floor
chasing sparkling dust to an antique chest of drawers
witnessed is nothing in midnight’s unbroken cloud
a crackle and a creak the bottom drawer slides out.


Laying in the bath watching the tap build a drip between my resting wrinkled toes. A soothing feeling weighs upon my lazing eyelids, a steam thickened breath fills my lungs, extreme lethargy soaks in me, I don’t flinch when the vaporous duckling spirits swim beneath my legs again. What a cute haunting.


A millipede is a Juggernaut to the microscopic ant
ant wants to ride the juggernaut but he really can’t
oh to ride the jungle highway along the jungle floor
to beat all the long ant lines to the jungle store
dreams fall away so he rejoins the micro masses
in time to get in line to cross some sweet molasses.


Metagnostic how his lipostomy does little to stem his logorrhea.


In the woods there are many things that howl and screech, but it is the Conger Moose that reigns. Beware the crackle of hoof upon crisp leaf, heed the warning call of the whooping cranes. You would be wise to make your retreat, your feet running swift aflame.



Them there

Short of directions I turned into this residents to gather bearing, the gravel drive crunched beneath my wheels. The help look on incredulous at the ostentatious colour, the ostentatious lines, at my very existence. The lady of the manor blindly bounded out of the door in excitement, bumping her head on a hanging basket, I helped her to her feet and picked up her cane, the fall had dampened her enthusiasm not one jot, she enthused “You must come see my fish, such playful beauties, do come in”. Bobbing on her effervescence I followed her indoors.
The old mansion was old moth-eaten, yet the help maintained it’s fragrance with fresh bloom and clear windows. I sat on a buttoned burgundy leather chair, while she sat on the floor, I dis-chaired and helped her onto her feet, to interface bottom with chair, before returning to mine. Immediately she began to enthuse once more of the fish, I looked around and there against the wall, a large aquarium sat with all manner of shipwrecks, bobbing divers and bubbling treasure chests, but no fish. To appease her I sprinkled some food into the aquarium and returned to the squeaky comfort of the chair. behind me I hear a disturbance in the waters, a splash of activity, I turn to glimpse a tail but no more, as the food continues it’s tumble to join the rest of the pile at the bottom of the tank. Turning my attention to pressing matters of being lost, I ask “Where exactly am I? and how far to get back to the A303?” She looked quizzically at me and asked “You are in Kent, I hazard a guess you have been lost for some time”. I slump somewhat and glaze over. Behind me another splash of aquatic activity. Turning, I see an orange fish slowly glide and hide behind the volcano. “Did you see!” she exclaimed as she launched her desk calendar at me in a flourish. Fortunately I blocked its further progress across the study with my face. “Such wonderful companions” she beamed. I took another look into the tank thinking ‘and so cheap to feed, they have not touched one bit of food.’
Just then a large gardener sidled into the room, wringing his hands, I would presume a big rosy face, yet his as pale as a plate, he ventured no further than the study’s threshold, nervously he shot glances at the fish tank. Before asking, “Please miss, could you stretch the composting budget a little further, so I might acquire a spade?”. The lady of the house in her only turn from enthusiasm grudgingly agreed to the gardeners request, so the gardener fled.
She turned to me “I imagine you suspected as much, but I just so very much wanted fish, they just arrived, so foolish to feed them I know, but I would still feel it would be neglectful to not do so”.. “Erm.. What?”.

Thanks Rudyard Kipling.

The chase

Wolf has slowed his chase of the Sun
the chill has seized his joints
Sun spreads her shadows long
coldly where the sun dial points
winter is rest from Wolfs pursuit
two continue the seasonal wheel
the circle the same till Ragnarok
when Wolf finally gets his meal.


What quake we are suffering
the ground is trembling still
do gift Sigyn a larger bowl
this one too soon to fill.


Slate is the season in Devon
every day the sky born grey
no bright spry crispy blue
Devon gifts rain all day.


This house creaks every night
in five hundred different ways
one noise for each years life
a howl for each ghost and stray.


The Moon is singing silently
with a twinkling starry choir
she is taking all the plaudits
till the sun returns with fire.


Blue wind slashes through soaking throw
lights are flashing in the store window
perhaps tomorrow is the big reveal
perhaps my loss will be repealed.