The Vine-Grower’s Daughter Four siblings, rough-footed, smelling of garlic, made plaited tracks down wide grey shores.   Plus vite, Maine!    Our youngest looks at everything. Sun flushed the Midi. Bird voices split the sky,  the wind took the land by the scruff of its neck. Was she, like this delta,   gorged with salt and water? She cut runes in the sand – des étangs, littoral lines. Drew circles with a stick.   It’s what kids do.     What I did too, laying down bones beside the slate-blue sea, slipping into rituals of creation when days were as long as the cockle path   that threads through the saltings to Scolt Head. Every day with all our gear,   and several times when the water bottle was left behind, I took a  barefoot run on mud-cracked hexagons.                                       Fenland Poetry Journal, Spring 2020                                         and The White Queen’s Last Stand Surfin’ Two days on the road through a brilliant Autumn dazzle, crunching chocolate-covered coffee beans. In between he sings to Dylan, Clapton, Springsteen, Beach Boys and the Beatles. My hand on his lap when he drives, his hand on mine when we swap until who is who                                       isn’t all that clear. Musing through the options for my ring, we’re checking out how far we’ve come, new life, blue skies, moving on. New life. Blue skies. Moving on. We’re checking out how far we’ve come. Musing through the options for my ring, now that who is who                                   isn’t all that clear. His hand on my lap as I drive, mine on his when we swap singing to the Beatles, Beach Boys, Springsteen,     Clapton and Bob Dylan. In between     we’re crunching chocolate-covered coffee beans    through a brilliant Autumn dazzle                            on the road again. Two days we’ll be home.            The Spectator, 12.9.2019 The Talking Cure Cool as an eel he slipped between syllables dissected text. Theories sprouted like flowering trees. Since dawn he’d battled with Papa. He was his own first patient. Rivals he conquored one by one. The ritual was fixed. Bergasse 19 to and fro on the steps ding-dong. Talk. Talk - unmentionable things - listening, he wrote it down. They must understand the nakedness of dreams. Taming the animal passions wasn’t easy. It wasn’t sin, it was unmapped landscape   The New Statesman, 12.4.2019                      A Poetry of Release with a debt to WS Graham Derek’s efforts ran unhgindered as the rain. Those dearest to him from childhood gone, he thoaught grief a gift he shsould earn. There’s relatively little words can do for grief but what else did he have? There were, he knew, huge worlds to share. Explore.                                   * ||||Let this poem be a still thiang, a mountain constructed from glass. I begin with the ghost of an intention which blasts itslf to nurture a new collision. Perhaps the shape of us  the wreckage, the shame and the dance – is in our language.   Tears in the Fence, 2019   and My Darling Derry       Anthologies include Skein, Templar, 2014;  Peleton, Templar, 2013;  Running Before the Wind, (Grey Hen Press) 2013;  Soundswrite Anthologies (Soundswrite Press, 2005 & 2006,)  Poetry Wivenhoe (2008);  Light Unlocked, Christmas Card Poems, (Enitharmon, 2005)