Un-mortar my walls.
Crumble brittle stone grit
to honest sand.
Dissolve me through skin,
whispering to skin.
Your skin.
Your warmth.
A story place made real,
substance shimmering
like mirage challenged light,
crazed to uncertain travel,
tear steps evaporated,
one world’s rumour,
diffused in another.
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Trees can be very big, and some of them are very old. Their character and way of life is complex, in many ways hidden, and very different from our own. They can make us pause and they can make us gasp.
drawing breath is a collection of twelve poems arising from a collaboration with visual artist Tansy Lee Moir.
I’ve made a series of recordings of readings. Hope you like them!
You can find links to readings and more about our collaboration here.
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This piece (words, sound, image) was made in response to a New Scientist article by Jessica Hamselou about studies by researchers at the University of St Andrews, and the University of Western Ontario into the phenomenon of déjá vu.
You read more about the science in Jessica’s fascinating article online at New Scientist.
My reading and the poem are below, click on the wee tiny thumbnail for a larger version of the image.
I did not tell you about the light switch
That I had replaced.
It was a faultless trap,
To catch you unawares after a day or so.
When you would reach and use it
Without a second thought.
At an unfussed click, gloom would depart,
Light would simply occur.
Your touch would smile with plain ease,
And you would know.
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Image collections
Steve's website
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