sestina to spring

I sit under the gaze of May’s fresh sky

the clean white blossoms, scattered, gleam like pearls

and bring alive the undergrowth of green 

where April saw but shadows of this hope

and now there lives a riot of survival 

amidst the death and worries of the world 


spreading like a fog over the world 

darkening the swiftly clearing sky

humanity’s concerns for its survival 

life now held as carefully as pearls 

no longer will our spring be one of hope

no longer will our leaves thrive and be green 


but look up now, see Nature’s arms of green 

reach down to spread her love across the world 

her breath floats on the wind and whispers hope 

a new found clarity has filled the sky 

Earth’s oyster opens, bright are all her pearls

the flowers dance with life not just survival


but we live on a knife-edge of survival 

our skin turns grey while Nature’s face is green 

we longed so much for riches and for pearls 

we lost the life that used to fill our world 

our lives fall short beneath the endless sky

horizons bring us fear, no longer hope 


yet all there is for us to hold is hope 

the hope that there is more than just survival

that we will feel the warmth of summer sky 

that we will turn to find the richest green

and look upon this place – not just our world

a living heaven, more to us than pearls 


in store for us are love and life, and pearls

when we look straight ahead with eyes of hope 

Nature holds the power of our world 

the will to bring disaster or survival 

to give us red, and pink, and blue and green 

a promised arc as sunset fills the sky 


a sunrise soon will greet that same bright sky

the trees and meadows all will grow back green

the world will tell the stories of survival 

book review – good omens

What better book to be reviewing right now than Good Omens – a collaboration between Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman recounting the comedic events leading up to the End of the Times, and the efforts of the unlikely duo of demon Crowley and angel Aziraphale to stop it in it’s tracks. Indeed, I myself have felt like I could be living in this book during recent weeks; the chaotic events of the novel seem no more unlikely than the current global pandemic.

I first fell in love with this story and it’s characters after watching the Amazon Prime TV adaptation of the book. Normally, I would never dream of watching an adaptation before reading the novel itself, but in this case, the casting and portrayal of the characters in the TV show did complete justice to their literary counterparts. David Tennant as Crowley and Michael Sheen as Aziraphale made the perfect combination, and I couldn’t wait to read the book as soon as I’d finsihed the show.

I’ll be honest, it’s taken a couple of months for me to finish the book given the general turmoil of the world and my consequent lack of focus. However, I think this book will definitely be one I will lovingly return to time and time again. The standard of storytelling is excellent, and aside from the inventive and hilarious plot, the characters of the novel are incredibly well rounded. Not only Crowley and Aziraphale, but secondary characters and even those who are mentioned only once of twice, are described so well they seem as though they are real people who could jump out of the page at any moment. The plot, and numerous sub-plots, are expertly crafted and interlaced, and the end of the novel ties up any loose ends perfectly.

I’d highly recommend Good Omens the book to anyone who wants a good, lighthearted read, as well as the TV show which in my opinion perfectly replicates the novel.

solitude – journal entry

During my first few weeks at university, I have had so many things to do and think about, and I’m happy to have had the chance to channel this into writing. As part of my homework for my course, I was asked to begin writing a daily journal. I’ve found this really fun, and beneficial in that it makes me write something every day. Below I’ve shared one of my journal entries 🙂

1/10/19  9:00pm

The hum of traffic fills my ears. My brain is tired of processing and filtering all of the information from the day. People rush past, and I need to be on my way, but just for a moment I stand there. Still.

Everything continues around me. Traffic and people hurtle past, all on their way to somewhere, part of a story into which I can gain only a glimpse. It feels wrong to stand here doing nothing in such a busy world. Even though it’s getting dark the city still feels so alive. Lights illuminate everything, blurring the distinction between night and day, and I wonder if this place ever sleeps. I look up to the sky – the colour of my mistakes, my grief streaked in a clouded white stripe along the horizon. But this is not the place for regret.

It seems like history has outlined itself in the silhouetted shadows of every building around me. In every brick, every corner, every face of each person passing, I am reminded of things that were, things that are, things that could have been. Everything has played a part in bringing me to now. Here, in the grimy puddles at the edge of the roadside, I am reminded that I have a choice. For once in my life I don’t turn in uncertainty to glance at who stands beside me at the kerb. I no longer think with impending doom that here, with my toes inches from the tyres grinding against the road, I am one step from my fate.

I can choose to move when I want to, to cross when I’m ready. I cannot be beckoned by someone on the other side, nor pushed by someone behind me. That’s the beauty of being alone. This is not loneliness any longer, but the freedom to be solitary and be content with it.




poem: night star

I need to speak

of how black the night

seems to me

without my north star


I want to scream

to the darkness


that sun and moon

do not have to rise


from each other’s horizon


I wish to tell

the empty sky

of a time

when galaxies burst

from its edges


but the stars

are too far-flung

to hear me now


so I sit

reciting poems to the moon


and in the morning

I will smile to the sun


ever pretending

that the world will always turn

without its heart

Photo by Nacho Rochon on Unsplash

poem: resistance


With my guardian trees

Soul sharing secrets

whispered on the wind


The world can do no wrong to me


The branches waver

But do not break


The leaves they shake

But do not fall

Just yet.


Earth firm

under quick-moving feet

Autumn barely waking

On the edge of the air


Nothing has to falter in transition


Change is haunting us

Yet here I stand


The pines, hand in hand

Resisting winter’s call

To war –


Has it really taken me

Until tonight to know


That home is where I wish it

And they cannot make me fight?


Why do I write?

People will ask my why I write; I suppose I’ll say it’s because I enjoy it. Or maybe because of the hope that, one day far in the future, I may glean some semblance of success from what I do. But this only provides an answer to the question. It does not provide the truth. You see, the thing is, I don’t write to answer questions – or not to answer anyone else’s at least. I write because, when I feel joy, writing it down is the only real way I can capture and contain that feeling, like fireflies in a jar, to admire again when the darkness creeps in.

I write, because when the darkness does come, the words are all I have left. They are the only things that understand. Because words do not feel hurt, they only channel it; and I’ll let all of the pain and the hurting be taken up by the page in inky tears. Because at times, that is the only outlet it has left.

I write, because longing is not a need that can be described in any other way, unless you feel it. The words know how it feels, that burning desire to reach the end of the page, to carry on and on into forever. They understand loving too. They are the best way I have found to free it, to show it, when there is nothing here to love but the blank sheet in front of me. And hatred, that too has found its way into the words. Anger which, if spoken, would leave me burning, but which on the page leaves only a trace. A whisper in the peaceful silence.

My point is, I do not write for anybody else, nor because I feel I have to. I write for myself, because it makes me feel alive, and because I believe that words have a life far more meaningful and enduring that ours. So next time someone asks me why I write, I will just smile, knowing that these pages hold the truths which cannot always be heard.




The wideness of the hills

I used to crave the wideness of the hills

the past a road fast fading far behind

a freedom from the haunting fears that filled

the overgrowing corners of my mind

I somehow sought for loneliness by stayed

swift sinking underneath my growing dread

the fear my soul was lost, I soon would fade

love’s warmth forgotten from my heart and head

And now I crave the hills leaps once again

but not to face my miseries alone

the valleys no more steeped in sorrow’s snow

the distance in the world is not a strain

now love, a greater force than loss has grown

and anywhere the depth of thought will go

For a moment everything was good

There was a moment

when you had just lifted me up with your laugh

and kissed me through my smile

a moment when I walked outside

to be surprised by the sun

in a minute’s release


there was a moment

where urgency was dulled

and I was, for that moment

the person that this time

wants me to be


we had said goodbye

but only for now

and I was heading homeward

with the dream of tomorrow

to free my wandering steps

Midnight Breeze

Sky streaked with dusky pink

the colour of dreams,

I walk the sighing streets,

unloved when there my heart remained

and cherished now I’m changed


Silent sounds of the budding year

echo in the sleepy shadows

drifting into last year’s slumber

tucked away in turfy sheets

while memory’s flowers grow


The promise of delight

with closing red, the sky

lights up my prospects and the going on

and strokes away my tears.

Morning need not come with fear, but ease

for laughter sings upon the midnight breeze.


I have always felt so


like a bird whose wings were clipped

for its own safety

now unsure

where it belongs without its flight.


I’ve always felt


emotions wound

like thread upon a spool

wrapped up and ready,

soon, to snap.


They tell us freedom brings danger

that we shouldn’t step

too far and cross the line

better to hide how we feel

what we want

what we love.


And I fear that

when I fly, untaught

I’ll fall

and face the consequence.

But my wings are broken anyway

I may never see the sky.