The Intimate and the Mythic


He fell asleep.

Around about the street lights flickered in the wind. The rain shattered and streaked the LED white and the amber and gold. Through the town, solitary figures huddled up inside their coats, walking at an angle to the storm. A late night chippy’s window steamed. The four or five customers lent against the glass, dark figures in the haze.

On his ceiling, the patterns of light danced. He slept alone. Outside his window was a pedestrian crossing. The two lights shone up through a gap in his curtains. Cars passed by, drunks sang football songs way off towards the town. None of this woke him, or bothered him. He held his pillow tight, and slept on.

She lay awake.

She spoke into the silence of her room. The sound of her voice surprised her. She seemed confident, somehow. Out loud she tried to recall the names of all her classmates at a former school. The ones who had taunted her, and the odd ones who had been her friends. The one whose face she could picture, but who, for some reason, she could remember the name of.

She lay awake. She wouldn’t sleep. She held her pillow and stared at the ceiling.



through the valley to the spring

the spring which appears only to vanish again

the spring which sings its brief song


and there to touch the Earth, damp and cold

to run a hand through the wire tussocks of grass

to hear the voices which have been and will be


to lie on the ground and watch the clouds

the same cycle as ever was

the effusion of mystery and grief


return again through the seasons

down the years as if they pass

feel the birdsong within the stones


see the lead in the lake, the lake

in the quartz, the quartz in the clouds

the clouds in the sediment of your thoughts


hear the cries of birth, death and non-being

hear them in the slightest rustle

there are echoes here, beneath this bridge