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To howl wolven

howl for joy

and the wonder of being

a link of sound

between earth and sky.


Why does a wolf

open throat the sky

at dusk

as the pack’s coats

melt into mist?


Each pack shelters

within its own sphere

yet its calls

reach out to the ever

inclusive wild.


Wolf howls are precise

gathering grandeur,

wolf energy shifts

through forests

of lifetimes.


Poets and scientists

attempt to unravel

the marvel

of the evening star

as she rises.


Only wolf

nails it

in high flying notes


the ashen face of Venus.


Grandmother’s Advice to Little Red


Know your instincts.

Trust them.

Acknowledge their ways and means

as they drive through you;

know they are counting

every single beat of your heart.


In playfulness

each of them grows strong,

a fabulous presence in its own right;

still a child, an explorer, a criatura.

Don’t let them fall

into lifelessness in your neglect.


Don’t herd them either, just be.

Feed them adventure and tears.

Red, you were not born

out of thin air, but conceived

in the breath of the following 

spell from the wildwood:

Take Cover – Turn Coat

Come Red – run red – Run

Take Heart – Turn Tail

Run Red – run red – Come! 


Allow your self flightiness,

it calls you

through wind on the land,

flame and water.

Gather what you need most

in your arms.


It will nourish you

so you flourish.

You are out of the ordinary.

It is instincts make it so.

Turn yourself into them.

Take up your bright lively hood.




Every star over the moors was a trouble,

before it was speaking in light, the way stars do.


Every journey was meaningless dust, until

that moment the feet touched water and tingled.


Granite beneath us is restless in its core;

cooling, heating, repeating patterns of flux.


The old Dartmoor saying is true now

gorse is in flower and kissing’s in season,


while the stream closest to home

is singing the song of songs.



I’m as earth, he’s as fire.

When the sun calls

it triggers a secret door in the pollen;

through millions of leaves

he’s gone to pick bluebells.


I call his name

over the circles I run in;

arms fly out to be leaf.

Jealous of nature,

a mother’s dry breast

is a useless thing.


Let me be still;

an earthenware jug

full of water

for bluebells.


Exchange with an Oak

I didn’t plan how to feel

when leaving this student bedsit

on the first floor, up close

to an oak’s sturdy limbs.


The tree has, just lately,

unfurled all its aerofoils;

I would have thought

enough to fly.


If it could perceive me better;

an earthling, therefore part

of the race with many tricks

to bring it down, it would:


change the colour

of its flag to red overnight,

unroll a multilingual ‘enough’

from its leafy tongues,


remove the saving grace

of its oxygen from my air.

Until the last minute, I go on

drawing gift after gift


from this oak; an old routine

we continue for every day

I am here. Transpire, partner,

estrange, reconfigure.


No One Expects Stars


they're dead sharp like fossils

or dance steps of snowdrops.

Their chief weapon is surprise…

lightness and surprise.


Their two chief weapons

are lightness,


and team spirit.


Among their weaponry

are such diverse elements

as surprise and pale determination,

like the white in human hair.


White as a signpost, or broken line

down the centre of the road,

a night sky is a snowfield

with silver drifts of hedges


hanging around for a footfall.

The touch of a voice

triggers avalanche…

walk beneath with care.

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