“Indifferent Isles”

these shores have met many ships,
bearing men and women of all walks:
the soldier weighted with metal-memory,
the farmer fleeing continental conflict,
the cross-men clasping golden idols,
the reaver in his longship laden,
the roman with her pointed spear:
Gods have died on these shores,
alongside the celt and the saxon,
the angle, and the norman; all swept
by wind through the broken trees
back to the coasts that once welcomed


“Stone Soldier”

Beneath the cold grasp of winter
I run along the smooth stonework
till I reach the statue again.

White stone soldier reaching upward,
both of his hands grasping the hilt
of a sword carved but never used.

His armour, resplendent silver
chiselled into a warlike shape
to protect from the elements.

He stands, in line with his brothers
to fight back the encroaching dead
and force away the souls of dmeons.

The stone slowly grinds down to dust
which catches away on the wind
and burns away our soldiers face:

An age of service soon forgotten.