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OWL Poetry

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  • lays out pointed tools, the way a surgeon might
    The jewellery maker
  • consonants you could lick the coal from
    Homing
  • on the verge of becoming black holes
    thirteen
  • I know my mountain breezes enchant and sooth thee still
    Shall Earth no more inspire thee
  • The sky is cloudy, yellowed by smoke'
    In a London Drawing Room
  • keep staring at it 'till you sleep
    Portable Paradise
  • leechlike to their fainting country cling
    England in 1819
  • like her (sita) i have been chastend through trial by fire
    name journeys
  • a silence that was not an absence'
    With Birds...
  • my great great grandad searched for spaces
    A Wider View
  • 'a wave of rubbish'
    Like an heiress
  • the missile cuts a pathway into her mind
    A century later
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