Category Archives: Poetry

babbling … you go down into the lost city there are secret squares of olde worlde trees, botanical gardens, that exist in dreams only, an alchemist’s shop, a bustling market, where you can buy truffles or star fruit; and embedded … Continue reading →

We thought we were moving to Leeds, then discovered we’d come to Yorkshire. The diversity of landscape here is an unimagined spell: coast, moorland, dale and fell, etched by strolling rivers beyond a vibrant city hub. Today, walking an ancient … Continue reading →

So good to be three floors up surrounded by pigeons fingers flying through catalogue cards nobody there in the hour before moonlight when everything is possible and the books whispering in the quarto room with leather-bound tongues. Liz McPherson Back … Continue reading →

You cross a checkerboard of stones, where vagrants seek pennies for visions, loop ranks of towering knights and pawns, enter crenellated streets, where citied girls thrall to stiletto heels and telephones. The air is hot, it stinks of drying cloth … Continue reading →

On a walk through the squares of Leeds, we entered the one named Woodhouse. Circular, unspectacular, empty, except for the woman sat on a bench with a child in a buggy. I was for walking through, on the other side. … Continue reading →

Saturday afternoon 35,000 sing Marching on Together, we’re going to see you win They sit, they stand, exercising their vocal chords, in solidarity against the enemy. We've been through it all together, we’ve had our ups and downs We're gonna … Continue reading →

We walked, full of purpose, among commodious villas with deep green gardens Where the latches on the iron gates clunked, and heavy with hesitant greeting, the gates grated and squeaked sending a warning signal, probably on deaf ears. Up the … Continue reading →

Yorkstone, millstone grit, Rough Rock cut from Bramley Fall. Carboniferous sandstones topped by immigrant Portland stone lions weathered away by time like the ancient underground tropical forests crushed to coal to cast the fireclay, burned into redbrick rectangles to build … Continue reading →

He was nowt but a lad from the hairdresser’s shop. Travelled north on his lofty pilgrimage. It’s a no brainer at twenty-two. Abbeys, castles, cathedrals abounded up north He set out with his great coat, top hat, sketch book, a … Continue reading →