Humanity will end, For all things must and do. This is not news. We are not masters of the Earth Nor even of ourselves. We are fruit on a branch of the tree of life: Budded, blown, Weathered and grown

Granite, Standing, Stacked. Two hundred and thirty million years On the roof of the world, Counting the years as seconds. Sounding the atomic kisses of raindrops. Sun warm, frost hard, The seasons blend

Making charcoal for drawing using Goat Willow (Salix Caprea) in the woods in Norfolk, England.

Can't find the exit?

I laid down my broken sword, By the sweet soft pads of your feet. We lit a fire so deep in the forge, Wrought truth and beauty from love With our hammers and tongues. We folded the iron of my sadness,

Stone before earth, Earth before flesh, Flesh before bread, Bread given life. ⠀⠀ Air before water, Water before blood, Blood before wine, Wine given life. ⠀⠀ We took in the grandness, the rocks and the

As I screwed up the old newspaper for lighting the woodburner this morning, with the snow falling heavy outside and the East wind worrying the tin roof, I happened upon an obituary for Hannah Hauxwell,

Rooks in the bare tops Of the die-back ash. Thinking of nothing, With no judgement to pass. Tasting the thermals, The gossiping air. Waiting contented, Transcendent of care.

"The bridge back to the archaic shamanic function of the artist..." I have been thinking a lot about the role of the artist of late and my own long, troubled and winding journey as an artist.

"The bridge back to the archaic shamanic function of the artist..." I have been thinking a lot about the role of the artist of late and my own long, troubled and winding journey as an artist.

"And who are we to save humanity? On what authority? I can never concieve myself as a savior, as a messiah, because these are all ego trips. Who am I to save you? If I can save myself, that is more

Stone before earth, Earth before flesh, Flesh before bread, Bread given life. Air before water, Water before blood, Blood before wine, Wine given life.

A commission to make a bench, to be sited under a tree planted in memory of a much loved wife, mother and grandmother. I was reminded of a tree that fell in the Clay Pit Woods during a summer storm: Sweet

Flowers in the dark night, The seed within you waits... Rain is falling hard now, The hour has gotten late. Storm cast and shaken, Upon rough seas boiled... Deep in each frightened unmet child, The sprouting

Flowers in the dark night, The seed within you waits... Rain is falling hard now, The hour has gotten late. Storm cast and shaken, Upon rough seas boiled... Deep in each frightened unmet Child, The sprouting

From a halo round the dream of a God Beyond thought or logic Or the calculus of insanity, Risen from the ashes of the world At the end of history Into the inexhaustable furness of now. Dreamt by the soil

Love is the full and kind acceptance of ones-self, with all its shadow and light. Love is bringing all your power, art and mastery, all your shame, weakness and fear as an offering to the temple of

Love as hard as ever you can, For dust will always gather, And youth mostly squandered leaves fast its mess, Empires rot and scatter to the winds, All fine cloth and silks to the moths, Gold's longing

Love knows nothing, Love cares not for propriety, Love arrives amid the cobble clatter of hooves, Boisterous dust and muck sweat. Love stumbles in laughing, half dressed, through the doorway, Irreverent,

I am harried by your eyes, As I rub mine, tired and late, Longing for their lidded bedspread. I am goaded by that soft pout, that parting... I cannot sleep, I cannot sleep, though I need to. The abacus