The white, crisp pillowcase and freshly laundered school sock were the harbingers of Christmas magic when I was a boy. I would lay them out at the end of my bed on Christmas Eve and finally drift into the dark womb of a pregnant sleep.
As I walked today with a friend in the valley that I live in, the dogs chasing around our legs, we reflected on the time of year. Around us the detritus of autumn, mouldering leaves, trees rapidly becoming naked and muddied paths making our boots
Last week we had a visit from Lara's Godmother Barbara. Twenty years ago she was our midwife, she was involved in the birth of our first daughter Eva and became her Godmother and then she was present at the precarious and premature birth of Lara
An almost overwhelming sense of oppressive sadness has settled on my heart over the past few days. When I have not been absorbed in my daughter Lara's facial surgery, from which she is now recovering, I have followed avidly the coverage and commentary around the
I wrote this piece in 2009 and have just revisited it. It seems just as relevant to me know as it did then. ‘People were startled to hear that if we don’t go to the spirit, the spirit comes to us as neurosis. This is the
'I burst out of the loft like an arrow at a target, though no target I have ever seen.' From The Call of the Unwritten - Title Poem - Adrian's First Collection. I wrote this poem during a series of workshops called a Salon Series led by the poet
A Secret Salvation Monday morning wet in the window-framed garden, a new pup asleep on my shoulder, her nose on my thoughts, as I tap away on a laptop, iPod playing, the would be poet. Debussy hovers over the keyboard as I try to craft honest lines. I open the window and my thoughts fly