I live in Harrogate, Yorkshire, where I run the local spoken word open mic group. I sometimes perform poetry at festivals and writers' groups and I have four published books, the latest of which is a 437-sonnet "verse novel" called God The Banana.
The boomerang bird is back with us again, the tireless sickle, slashing swathes of wind inflicting wounds with wicked scything wings, shrieking summer’s swift ecstatic pain. It flings itself at frightened insects, flies on whittled blades, deadly smooth and fast,
Picture a diamond spinning against the dark, flinging back the brilliance of a sun. Move a little closer – you’ll be stunned how lakes and oceans flash, how ice-caps spark. Zoom in lower still and see the forests, so vibrant,
I can’t recall the people on the train from Delhi to Jammu. I don’t retain their style of dress, their speech or anything. All I can see is the bob of the telephone lines where roller birds regard the country