Poetry is bridging language, the connecting tissue between us and the living world. Below are a few snippets that never made it into complete poems.




Bewitched by dull grey clay

Cloistered by the sod

Packed about with past

To rot awhile beneath



Each and every carnivorous night, raw runes under milk skin

Drip slick from the greasy sky

The aftermath cellulite, wrinkled



Reaching for the screw

cap to

bottle you whole



There is no map for this, the guidelines bleached out

Like the chalk of some forgotten game

The players long passed, their fires cold

Their bodies dust, their bones old



Licking the geos, point after point of flatness

Another thousand miles to perch on weary haunches

to watch the ocean murmur

The patter lure skipped out, a bum trace, no barn in the hook

the sea takes us all for suckers



Cut Shackle Ditty

She came from the summer
Out the mouth of August
Spat from a season milling lack
willing Autumn's shift of tack
Against the ropes
Late sun, faint under high notes
Sucking zoetropes of sound
Reflecting bold light
To dance upon eternal skin
Unwound fixity of old plans
And breathless things are found
Whilst the light conspires to haunt
Heavier, mile by mile
It taunts the barren land
And gravity lingers, rides her back
For a moment in the sand, a while
Singes the fringes of her smile
For she came in the teeth of the heat
Whilst summer burned drier
(The moonbound days had just begun)
Obsidian eyes and endless rug of hair
Full form, at the whim of Winter
Kin thorns, fingers briar bloody
The flowers fall to the cracked earth
And she dances because she can


This photo was taken by Thor Jonsson. It's me surfing somewhere near Bundoran a long time ago on the September trip. The board was by Fluid Juice, based on a widowmaker template I'd taken from one of Andrew Kidman's Parmenters. I remember this session with Sam Bleakley and Jim Newitt, the tide dropped out and a few midface rocks appeared and I grazed my head on one underwater. Thor recently passed away and the surfing world said goodbye to another great talent.


I was saddened to learn of the passing of Neil Watson, a Suffolk surfing legend. Alex Wade published an obituary in The Times, where this photo is from. I never spoke to Neil but to say hi, but I'm old enough to remember the epic Grey Juice and Surf East films that he made. The Lowestoft Surf Club scene seemed like one of those magic outpost crews, as anyone who has seen their newsletter will testify to. I dimly remember as a terrified 15-year old seeing these guys on actual surfboards, near home, really surfing. It was the most exciting thing ever. 

One August day last year whilst I was working on a farm, I borrowed some boardshorts off my old mate Raven and headed up the coast after work with a good south swell blowing. Neil snapped the below shot, which a friend told me ran in Wavelength though I didn't see it. It was great to put a name to the face. I made a resolution to have a chat next time a good swell made its way up or down our coast. I never got the chance, but I'll remember Neil forever as one of those souls intrinsically linked with a place, a surfer who never fell out of love with it.




That time we stayed out there past the dusk
The light became grains, granular incandescence
The waves were matt lumps, hidden until the final second
And bursting open, their white parts bare for a glimpse
The flat disc of the moon burst upon us
At first a flickering light that flirted with the swell
Danced across its surfaces, swept its corridors clean
And at last a silver screen, that descended on us like a dawn
What had been hidden was wirebrushed metal, figures drawn
And we came into this new light like children
Calling to ourselves, in delight and reassurance
Sitting on our boards questioning, questioning
Riders of the moon lake, this being beyond consequence
Fugitives from the sleeping world, threaders of the brighter dark


Lightwalk Passenger

Moments linger and drown,
Borders lilt and lift,
No limit to promises, this cylinder twists
Through soft traces, lines of light shift
Shadow running, motes of the moving planet

The rock that flows beneath; a spectre,
Fragments of buried sun shine luminous
And grains of water, falling salt morsels
Mask grasping fingers of kelp
Under glass wide as cathedral windows

Soft treading, sky-dancing
Augurs seeking
gold in the shreds, jewels in the scraps
I cannot believe this time could pass
I would not wish one iota to shift

Passengers of light, trace walkers
Many the seams to thread
For these journeys are all I am,
these my forevers to tread



Short, beautiful days. Photos by Calum Creasey in Northern Sweden.



Sleep well, Thor


Independent journalism network Contributoria published an article about a new definition of wild. A friend who knows my writing well asked why I'm stuffing these articles so full of quotes. I am writing this way to show just how broad and involved the thinking around these topics is. In writing about interconnectedness and our relation to nature, I'm expressing timeless human questions. We all know this, and feel it, I believe. 






A rare chance to spend time researching in the British Library. The illustration is a noaide drum. 


Eden Project

The Eden Project gave me an incredible opportunity to spend four hours teaching 16 chemistry PHD students from Bath University. My brief was to challenge their world view, and through a series of activities and discussions I believe this was achieved. Due to the inclement weather, my part of the two-day course took place in the rainforest biome at night.