A poem is a plank, it’s tough and sexy, an earmuff. You can fly through the air, or dig a hole with it. See things that never were. You can think or swim with it, be sick or thin with it. It’s a snake

It was poor country with barely enough grazing for the meagre flocks of sheep upon which the people relied for so many of their daily needs. Here and there a pocket of deeper soil supported a stunted growth

The blast obliterated his senses. As he started to claw his way out of the blind and numb blackness back towards a slowly convulsing consciousness, he whispered, ‘Mum.’ Then he pleaded meekly to his motherless

The other day I was walking down Armstrong Boulevard, stopping every now and again to pass the time of day with friends and acquaintances. It was the first warm and clear day for some time, warm enough