Poetry
Where the veil wears thin.
Verse that captures the sensory and the spiritual. From the landscape of Ireland to the internal weather of the soul, these poems offer a language for what is felt but not always spoken.
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Aisles. Burdens. Presence.
Next time you pass through a supermarket, look again—Christ is there, in quiet burdens, careful choices, and small acts of kindness that sustain daily life. Continue reading
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Across the Years and Seas
Friendship endures over distance and time, always returning. Continue reading
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Storm. Shelter. Morning. Guarded by Otto
The wind is roaring through the dark,and rain beats on the pane;yet here my bed is warm and still,a refuge from the rain.With Otto resting in my hand,I breathe in soft and slow;while storms go wandering where they will,I’m held in gentle glow.The shadows dance upon the wall,The world is tucked away;Young Otto guards the… Continue reading
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In the Company of Ireland’s Saints
A familiar melody, gently reclaimed on St Patrick’s Night: a song‑poem of saints, landscape, and belonging, reshaped into something quietly Irish and wholly new. Continue reading
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Otto holds the first stitch
Learning slowly, one loop at a time—finding quiet grace in dialysis hours, with wool, waiting needles, and a gentle companion beside me. Continue reading
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World Kidney Day – free, hooray!
A poem for World Kidney Day – free from dialysis today, hooray! Continue reading
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Gone Home Alfred
The Quiet Legacy of a Scouter Today, we honor Alfred Reoch MBE. To those who knew him, Alfred was the embodiment of what it means to serve. In a world that often demands self-promotion, he chose a different path: the slow, faithful work of being present. Living in Gibraltar, you realize that Scouting is a… Continue reading
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The Empty Chair: A Liturgy of Absence.
Christy’s absence in the dialysis ward creates a profound sense of loss, highlighting the bond with caregivers and shared memories. Continue reading
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Of Lanterns, Bears, and Finding the Sun
113/69 may not be very low for most people, in fact it is well within the normal range, but my normal tends to be high so it was quite a drop. This poem was written during the night after such a drop. The darkness hums too loud to bear, each whisper sharp and near; my… Continue reading
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A small sweet mercy
This morning was a Tuesday free from the humming dialysis lines—the chest-port resting, the machine silent for a day. I travelled up to Dublin, but by evening the journey had taken its quiet toll. The poem grew out of that very ordinary kind of tiredness: the moment when even cooking feels like too much, the… Continue reading
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The Rafters and the Harbour
The poem I share below about travelling into NHQ isn’t really about trains or coffee or even comms work. It’s about return. There was a time when my work with St John Ambulance Ireland was my paid role—front-line, though not uniformed, serving within National Headquarters. Kidney failure changed that. Dialysis made that life impossible. Now… Continue reading
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The muted blue
I found myself shaping these lines in the crisp hush of early frost, walking toward the station as the birds lifted their chorus into the pale blue morning. The early frost along the lane,The breath that clouds the morning air;The jays cry out their sharp refrain,And rooks rise ragged from their lair.Blue tits dart quick… Continue reading
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Ritual of the evening tea
There are grand liturgies in cathedrals, and there are quieter ones at kitchen tables. Ritual of the Evening Tea was written out of that smaller sanctuary—the hum of the kettle, the red box of Thompson’s on the counter, the amber pour into a waiting cup. In the simple making of tea, I find steadiness, warmth,… Continue reading
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Pancakes made the quiet way
Pancakes Made the Quiet Way is a gentle celebration of ordinary ritual—the kind of small, steady act that steadies the soul as much as it feeds the body. In simple measures and unhurried movements, the poem lingers over flour falling, batter smoothing, and pancakes turning in the pan, finding in each step a quiet grace.… Continue reading
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The star that keeps watch
A lone star high up in the skyBeams brightly through the cold,Its shimmer threading winter’s darkWith stories yet untold.From here inside the quiet house,Where stillness warms the air,We watch it through the windowpane—A small, steadfast prayer.The only sound that stirs the hushIs soft and low and whole:Two kitties sharing, side by side,The murmuring of one… Continue reading
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The hum of lines
I wrote a poem this week called The Hum of Lines. It is not a bright poem. It sits in the quiet room. It listens to the machine. It hears the slow, steady movement of blood through borrowed pathways. Dialysis has a soundscape. The hum of the pump. The soft alarms. The rhythm that is… Continue reading
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Otto. Lancelot. Allen.
There are nights when sleep needs a little help, when the dark feels louder and the mind slower to settle. So Otto, Lancelot, and tiny Allen take their places—not as toys, but as anchors. Softness becomes structure; familiarity becomes safety. For some of us, comfort is architecture. And sometimes resilience is simply three small guardians… Continue reading
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Writing in the Small Hours
This poem was written in real time, in the small hours of the night—not at a desk prepared for “creative work,” but wrapped in a teal blanket, slightly breathless from the stairs, listening to the cats settle at my feet. There is a particular honesty to writing at 3am. The house is quiet. The nervous… Continue reading
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A Quiet House, A Returning Train
Today I found myself writing two small Common Metre poems—companions to one another. Andrew was in Dublin for a course, and the house felt different in his absence. Not lonely exactly. Just altered. Softer around the edges. The Sunday light lay still. The cats took up their posts. The kettle hummed. Pancakes became a small,… Continue reading
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Across the Barrow Viaduct—Writing Between Water and Iron
This evening I found myself standing between layers of movement. The river flowing dark and slow. The canal holding the last of the light. And high above, the long stone ribs of the Barrow Viaduct carrying a train across the fading sky. Across the Barrow Viaduct grew out of that layered stillness. The engine in… Continue reading
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