Poetry‎ > ‎


 Mousehall cottages are asleep with bramble, 
the pin pricks of a fierce witch riding on the wind. 
A wasp knocks at the window, cracked chimneys 
whistle in the like of a farmer for his dog. 
The bricks shift in their sleep, remembering kitchen 
fires and children. The dog at the heels 
of an orphan lamb. 

 Birds and weed sew seed in the crop-less field, 
hand-stitched into sleep: white bryony, nettles, 
fat hen and night shade. We are broadcasting 
with them. We are rooted in the sestina of sleep 
and seed. The ring of pines which line the fields 
watch over thirteen-thousand sheep who ignore 
the trees’ summons, come by, come by.