Sandpaper Skin

 Abandoned by days last light
A castle wakes at the top of the hill   
The cloak of darkness a sinister sight 

Wrapped in linen and dove white 

Upon a ledge of dusk and sighs

I crawl across,

The strength of my bones 

Merely an outline of self

I swallow hard the lump in my throat 

My tongue of razor edge – 

Seeping and percolating 

Sandpaper skin

Baring down on plighted throne 

Of nettle and spike 

A thorn in my heart, 

My hands harvest the lines of a jagged path

Time, left me here to haunt


My silhouette now guards the fort. 

Little Lamb

  She spoke in tongues of old of stories long told Red raw and brimming with gold Her breathe darted against the cold Trees fallen by the wayside lonely in the night silenced by the wind, her voice – hushed … Continue reading


In the centre of the room
under a roof made of straw.
The hearth – rages
in leaping song,
the flames loop and wind,
Wood and timber – consumed by the lips of hell,
An ageless tale of the gods,
Her face sheltered beneath gently fallen locks,
Lit by the fire; the colour of the flame,
Resting her cheek on the lap of love –
In the shadows of endless heart,
Tending to the threads of scarlet strings,
Twined for eternity to ancient ties,
With hands – warm and wandering,
Grasping at the throne,
Beside the fireplace darling Hestia dwells.