Monthly Archives: April 2010


Troubled clouds amass an angry smile,
the night sky darkens in disgust.
The sea responds with measured barks,
the lighthouse beacon calling for the dawn.
In the distance, a tanker spills a black carpet.
church bells toll…


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Time to choose

Portabello Road London

The night stands firm in its decision,
prepared to blacken windows and kill the sun.
Even the clock is tired of listening, its hands
point to the choices waiting,
in the corner of this weary room.

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Only In Places Like This

Leaving city life at the edge of the highway, replacing

bitumen heat with the salt-perfume of sea’s breath.

Only a scatter of stores to tempt the ladies who

are more at home on Noosa streets, with their

gold mesh and white linen. Here, some things

never change: the caravan park that waits patiently

for its regular families to set up camp, those who

understand that the run of bait fish straining

against the current, are a fluorescent reminder

to slow down and that the glittering basalt walls

that fringe the coastline, are not simply seats

for determined fishermen, but platforms that bond

fathers with sons on equal footing. It is in

these moments you realise, their catch is

greater than any fish they are likely to land.

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On The Edge of Winter

Pressed up against the glare of

a bitter winter’s day, early morning dew

drips with the rising sun, that

casts your shadow on the ground.

As the droplets hit my face I

sense the flood returning, like

an over loved rag-doll I acquiesce to

its current, floating face down

knowing, this time there will be no survivors.

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Blog Virgin

It’s official I have lost my bloginity!!  This blog a record of many firsts – the unleashing of some closeted passions – photography and poetry. So to start things off here is a poem inspired by an abandoned boat I photographed at Noosa.


Mangroves curtain your grave;

bitten by rust and licked raw by the sea’s salty tongue

we find you abandoned.

No sign of your captain’s footprints in the mudflats,

the crab’s gallery of sandy spheres warn us

we are trampling sacred ground.

Your travels written in the peel of paint

that floats to the river’s mouth;

torn pages of a log book

only the sea will remember.


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