12 Days of Lockdown. 4.


Anybody else get worried

watching people on telly 

standing too close together

they ask.

People want an explanation

of how quickly being socially distant

became their new lens.

We’re wired to notice

what is dangerous 

and therefore important.

I don’t have a new instant overlay

for the world though, now spiky virus cells

circulate like planets

I was always clumsy and elliptical,

unsure of the correct orbits

how close was too close,

how far too far.

I fix instead 

on another left glove on a branch

singular as a vernal star.

Twelve Days of Lockdown 2.


Nostalgic for everything,

even rubbish feels like excavated evidence

of the pastimes 

of a former civilisation


remnants of us waiting

or abandoned like one of those villages

flooded to make a reservoir.


We are being smoothed,

swirled, carded, caught up

despite ourselves.


As if we could control

what the elements shape

or resist making relics

out of our need to escape.


I responded to Colin Potsig’s photographs of his lockdown walks with poems inspired also by my own.


Twelve Days of Lockdown: 1.

A project in which I responded to Colin Potsig’s beautiful lockdown walk photographs with my poems (& vice versa).


Like a punch from behind,

a tooth breaking off at its bloody root

leaving you with a shocking black gap

like waking up at your own snore

gasping for air

the upending of the world

when you put your foot

on a step that isn’t there.

It’s alright to tell us this had been

foreseen for years 

in plans, models, rehearsals

that’s not how we were struck,

that’s not what froze our core

like the siren of the alarm clock,

a white bomb glare.

So tell us again 

about what always grows back

about slender shoots growing 

from blasted stumps,

green fishing rods into the future,

tender rebuttals to the torn out page

that used to be tomorrow.

Here is destruction we can bear to look at,

here is hope we can borrow.