Flatlands
An ambitious sequence of prize-winning poems, Flatlands unearths a living world from East Anglia's prehistory. Steeped in the imagery of windswept marshland and the smoke of the round house, the
poems' stark forms evoke the voices of
flint miners, tribal warriors and the violence and turmoil as Boudica's army rises up against Roman rule. Exploring
universal themes – love and
infidelity, bereavement and
sometimes murderous hatreds –
Flatlands holds a mirror to ourselves.
SALT PUBLISHING
poems' stark forms evoke the voices of
flint miners, tribal warriors and the violence and turmoil as Boudica's army rises up against Roman rule. Exploring
universal themes – love and
infidelity, bereavement and
sometimes murderous hatreds –
Flatlands holds a mirror to ourselves.
SALT PUBLISHING
Thames Idol
A scarred hand carved my buttocks
scraped my spine
made thin hips to cup a man
I stood at the back of a quiet hut
In famine they brought me food
in spring they sang for rain
At last they gave me to the river
a bigger god than I
Earth pressed my breasts
Now I cheat the rot of leaves
Black water fills my eyes
frost cracks my grained flesh
Your hand will draw me from the mud
Find me in your own time
find me in your own face
A scarred hand carved my buttocks
scraped my spine
made thin hips to cup a man
I stood at the back of a quiet hut
In famine they brought me food
in spring they sang for rain
At last they gave me to the river
a bigger god than I
Earth pressed my breasts
Now I cheat the rot of leaves
Black water fills my eyes
frost cracks my grained flesh
Your hand will draw me from the mud
Find me in your own time
find me in your own face
Day Graves
Axes of antler
ox-bone scoops
spring and summer
on our bellies
down here stripping flint
the sky passes
Chalk-torn faces
splinters chip our eyes
breath sore
dragging bags
of rock and rubble
our raw tomb opens
Picks clack
a half-blind curse
a cough a clot of grit
walls seep
a roof crack loosens
the tunnel listens
Sun high the ladder
sheep-curd milk and bread
spring and summer
fields of fresh light
below a crawl
to the day’s last stone
ox-bone scoops
spring and summer
on our bellies
down here stripping flint
the sky passes
Chalk-torn faces
splinters chip our eyes
breath sore
dragging bags
of rock and rubble
our raw tomb opens
Picks clack
a half-blind curse
a cough a clot of grit
walls seep
a roof crack loosens
the tunnel listens
Sun high the ladder
sheep-curd milk and bread
spring and summer
fields of fresh light
below a crawl
to the day’s last stone
Villagers
A stone clutched
in mutton fingers
my thick knuckles
grind poor corn
I squat in the sun
outside the hut
by the river path
where I used to run
Oakleaf water
soaks my pain
my daughter rubs
my knees
with nettle balm
in mutton fingers
my thick knuckles
grind poor corn
I squat in the sun
outside the hut
by the river path
where I used to run
Oakleaf water
soaks my pain
my daughter rubs
my knees
with nettle balm
Sayer
The hearth is hushed
strange faces in firelight
men rest against the wattle walls
ale weary
their bellies heavy with feasting
To them
who see no farther than their fields
the same trees leafing in spring
my head is full of treasure
my mouth rich with gemstones
I’m a sharpened axe on an enemy’s neck
an arrow singing in sunlight
a sword’s arc in the wooded night
I earn the first meat from the flesh hook
the best bed in the round house
I trade with my tongue
a thatcher of stories
farmer of words
Homestead to homestead
I walk the sky’s edge
an ear to the river’s chatter
the kestrel’s cry
the sighs of fenland trees
crippled in the wind
strange faces in firelight
men rest against the wattle walls
ale weary
their bellies heavy with feasting
To them
who see no farther than their fields
the same trees leafing in spring
my head is full of treasure
my mouth rich with gemstones
I’m a sharpened axe on an enemy’s neck
an arrow singing in sunlight
a sword’s arc in the wooded night
I earn the first meat from the flesh hook
the best bed in the round house
I trade with my tongue
a thatcher of stories
farmer of words
Homestead to homestead
I walk the sky’s edge
an ear to the river’s chatter
the kestrel’s cry
the sighs of fenland trees
crippled in the wind
Boudica's Brooch
We slid in blood
on the rutted cobbles
our knives flashed
in the fine rain
storehouse and shop torched
men split like grain bags
their whores scattering with rats
as my army gutted
the brick town
By the hearth’s dim glow
I polish this brooch
the last reflection
of what I was
mother
a woman of rank
consort to a king
Drunk on the hillside
my men fear the fire
of a widow’s rage
Moon and darkness
dawn and light
today I will sear
these grey fields
the cold flesh
of our kingdom
Mine the hand
to flay the legions
I fasten my mantle
as the hot wind takes me
on the rutted cobbles
our knives flashed
in the fine rain
storehouse and shop torched
men split like grain bags
their whores scattering with rats
as my army gutted
the brick town
By the hearth’s dim glow
I polish this brooch
the last reflection
of what I was
mother
a woman of rank
consort to a king
Drunk on the hillside
my men fear the fire
of a widow’s rage
Moon and darkness
dawn and light
today I will sear
these grey fields
the cold flesh
of our kingdom
Mine the hand
to flay the legions
I fasten my mantle
as the hot wind takes me