The Faithful Remnant at the End of Time

New edits of first or incomplete drafts which have been languishing unloved for too long.
June 2013.



Sir, give me this water, that I may not thirst, nor come here to draw. May never leave hurriedly the town's narrow


Is this everything - your name printed on paper two bunches of flowers and thirty-one people with your genes? Stories were never written on a string of DNA.


When I was nine years old, I found God in church.

Dixie's Chair

solace of recognition

Fitzrovia in These Times

Somewhere out there I’ve a home in the city a table, a staircase, a rent-book and you.
Poem of the week

Longs Close

It is not you I mourn but the walk to your house through the wheat on Dodds lane and the haze on Pyrford roads in high summer. Now, bereft of my place in those times
Gold cherry

Lost Baby

You came into the world just a few weeks in the making

Prime Numbers

The day the world flinched, like sunlight through a coma they carried their dead on advertisement boards. Surgeons waited like ignoble cannibals to strip out their organs or lay them
Gold cherry

The Theatre

ὑποκριτής Wordless I have found these words between the Chinese poems and the stars when shutters lift from the empty stage. The props are strewn across the boards,