A poem I wrote when visiting Orkney in 2026: Yes, it is 59° North where I am standing, under the afterglow lingering from evenfall, and it is here that I encounter the amorphous, ashen light anticipating lightning, dew appearing when it is not yet due. With our tendency to hyperbole, we the havenless need to find a place to rest, and I mean really rest. All around us, the sea (a glutinous mound) and this green land (like gates of horn), both forgivingly far away from ou

A poem I wrote during my visit to North and South Uist in 2015, in both English and Spanish: Playing with dice in North Uist It was there −along the sweeping, unspoiled beach, no footprints from birds, sea unruffled by wind, white sand as if freshly bleached, sun shining with much enthusiasm though not warm− that you said this will not be forever, and I flatly refused to believe you. How can this seascape not last, its colours the very definition of infinity, its scent re

My poem/play dedicated to 19th century sculptor Camille Claudel. I first performed it at the Pitshanger Poets reading, during the My Muse Festival at Questors Theatre, London: Oh Camille! What happened to your art, Camille? Why do you no longer craft beautiful things? I asked her this when I visited her in the asylum. It’s a psychiatric asylum, mercifully we do not use such words anymore. Camille has been here for decades, since 1913 in fact. We are sitting in the garden. Y