top of page



Night shakes hurt the most.

Firm hands strangle the life

out of sedate songs.


You’re awake

breathing the curse of noise,

as dark sniggers.


The hours clang,

trees thump the ground,

damp air sharpens knives.


Prickly reminders have lodged in bones,

ill words wrestle sore blood.

A bead of mourning rolls under skin.


You lie on this rack,

hear every rotten dream;

words swoop like snatching gulls.

Background: MS ensures I don't get a good night's sleep.

bottom of page