Bluebell Woods

In the enchanted forest, far, far away

Rabbits dress in waistcoats and chat about their day

Fairies live in toadstools, deep in the wooded dell

They sing and dance to the chimes of the quivering bluebell

An Enid Blyton story, a fairy tale or dream

Or closer to the truth, than at first it would seem

Down in Bluebell Woods, which is not so far ...

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I don’t want to look up at the sky anymore
for it terrifies me
the stars have never been more than crumbs of the universe
laymen wish upon
and suddenly I find myself
tracing your eyes
nose
and the bottom of your chin
along constellations complex
crumbs that leave a path
tiny pieces of you
that lead me home

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Her lips were red apples,

“Don’t trust lust!”

They called her a hag

Told me she had driven me mad!

“Kiss me” she said

And then I dropped dead

Because I realised my story was wrong,

Erased the ending they taught belonged

And then all I had to do was admit!

Write into the story and say:

actually everyone I am g-

“She’s sick, she’s just sick!”

“She needs a doc...

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Amongst the folded hills
The forest ripples
Dripping 
Down into the valleys, 
Then 
Clambers back up 
Towards heaven 

A Saxon Lord, a hunter
Atop his white and noble steed
His kinsmen close behind him 
Hounds baying at the Stag
They pursue 
Charges through the sunlight
Dappled green
Painted on his brow

Concentrated on his quest
Divided from his clan
Appearing in his vision
A ...

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The birthing of articulated expression
will always find its means of entering
into the world outside and beyond
the inner recesses of our awareness.

I love the wee and trippy hours of the
after midnight when the glass slipper
lay glimmering aloof in the moonlight
and the weary dreamer sets some
ink of thoughts onto the parchment
of a woozy head - too...

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