The Killing Tree

How can you write 

about a tree to kill?

How can you write 

about a child

with their head smashed 

against knotted bark

under the glare of neon

the smell of diesel

and the music of hate?

I hear the gentle voice

narrating genocide

and butterflies flit

amongst spring flowers.

(The Killing Fields Phnom Penh)


I need…

I need 

a place that soothes and comforts. 

Riddled with imperfections 

I need 

safe space to heal, 

learn, and understand. 

I need 

a place to retreat

when the ravages of the world 

beat me down. 

I don’t need 

binary judgements, 

or cuts that are gouged

open for public dissection 

and deeper hurt.

I don’t need 

pre-determined solutions 

followed by dismissal. 

Ando Hiroshige: Evening Shower at Atake and the Great Bridge


There should be noise.

That sound of endless rain,

and distant cloud rumble.

Feet soaked, shoes sodden

splash and thud

across bamboo

where fibres twist and swell

with swaying creaks


plop, plops of water

falling into darkness.

For the people on the bridge-

they see only edges

of parasol,

and the hazy burn

of driving rain.


For me, I see only silence.

Coastal Menorca


Shaded breeze, infused with

earth baked needle pine

caresses skin, salt stung.

Silt sand, amber   

with polished pebble,

roll and sigh to

waves’ rough tussle.

Shrubs low slung, defiant green

cling to falling ridges;

whilst sea, cobalt blue

flashes through

heat cracked, lava licked rock.

This island suffers

Nature’s mercurial whim

and through her fingers

stone, blood red, crumbles.